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*3 


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1 


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POEMS 


THE  IION.  MRS.  NORTON, 


WITH 


A NOTICE  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 


RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD. 


NEW  YORK: 

LEAVITT  & ALLEN 

27  DEY-STREET. 

1853. 


C.  A.  ALVORD,  Printer. 


,A> 


CONTENTS. 

Memoir  5 

To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  JO 

The  Dream  13 

A Destiny  7i 

The  (Jreole  Girl  79 

Twilight  90 

The  Blind  Man’s  Bride  97 

The  Widow  to  her  Son’s  Betrothed iOO 

The  Dying  Hour  103 

I cannot  love  thee  107 

The  Poet’s  Choice 1 14 

The  German  Student’s  Love  Song  116 

The  Hunting  Horn  of  Charlemagne  JiO 

The  Faithful  Friend 323 

The  Winter’s  Walk  130 

The  Reprieve  134 

The  Forsaken  138 

The  Visionary  Portrait  Ill 

The  Picture  of  Sappho  143 

The  Sense  of  Beauty  346 

The  Mother’s  Heart  151 

May- Day,  1837  154 

To  the  Lady  H.  0 356 

The  Fallen  Leaves  159 

The  Autumn  Wind  161 

The  Tryst  163 

The  Banner  of  the  Covenanters  164 

The  Rock  of  the  Betrayed 169 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth  176 

The  Child  of  Earth  177 

The  Christening  379 

The  Mother’s  Last  Watch 183 

The  Arab’s  Farewell  to  his  Horse  186 

The  Fever  Dream  189 

702338 

if . 


''rf 


Hi 


ii^ 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Ataraxia  192 

On  seeing  Anthony  Ashley 196 

The  Chapel  Royal  St.  James’s  108 

Chidick  Tychborn  201 

Spring 202 

The  Faithful  Guardian 205 

Xarifa  207 

The  Flight  of  Xerxes 210 

The  Careless  Word 211 

They  loved  one  another  213 

My  Childhood’s  Home 215 

Old  Friends 216 

When  poor  in  all  but  hope  and  love  218 

We  have  been  Friends  together  219 

The  Mourners  220 

Would  I were  with  thee  222 

The  Captive  Pirate 223 

The  Future  226 

The  Ringlet  ..  231 

The  Heart’s  Wreck  233 

The  Lost  One  2:)4 

My  Native  Land 236 

Dreams  238 

Recollections 2:19 

The  Greek  Girl’s  Lament  for  her  Lover  241 

Mary  242 

The  Pilgrim  of  Life  243 

To  a blind  Child  245 

Marriage  and  Love  248 

The  Wanderer  looking  into  other  Homes  255 

Music  s Power  258 

The  Faithless  Knight  2.''9 

Farewell 20 

I was  not  false  to  thee  2(^1 

Oh!  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rill  2'.  2 

The  Name  264 

The  one  you  loved  the  best  2ii5 

The  purple  and  white  Carnation 2t;6 

The  Bride « 2;i9 

First  Love  272 

Sonnets 274  to  288 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  NOR  ON. 


The  women  of  England  have  ih  ihe  jnesciit 
century  produi3ed  more  good  poetrj  than  in  all 
previous  ages.  Mrs.  Tighe,  Joanna  Baillie, 
Mrs.  Hemans,  Elizabeth  B.  Barret, Miss  Landon, 
and  Mrs.  Norton  are  worthy  to  be  ranked  with 
almost  §.ny  half  dozen  contemporaries  of  the 
other  se^r. 

Mrs.  Norton  has  been  styled  “the  female 
Byron.”  She  resembles  the  greatest  poet  of 
modern  times  in  all  but  his  vices.  Like  the 
noble  bard  she  was  ill-mated  in  her  marriage 
Her  mind  has  been  fashioned  by  misfortune 
Tier  poetry  mirrors  her  feelings.  It  is,  what 
some  critics  have  contended  all  poetry  should 
be,  “ the  lyrical  expression  of  passion.” 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Norton  is  the 
grand-daughter  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheri  dan, 
and  the  inheritor  of  his  genius.  While  she  was 
an  infant  her  father  sought  the  renovation  of  a 
shattered  constitution  in  the  southern  seas.  Me 

5 


6 


MExMOIR  OF  xMRS.  NORTON. 


died  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  four  or  five 
years  after  leaving  England,  and  his  young  and 
beautiful  V\ridow  returned,  to  devote  herself  with 
untiring  assiduity  to  the  education  of  her  chil- 
dren, the  subject  of  this  notice  and  a sister,  now 
the  wife  of  the- Hon.  Price  Blackwood. 

These  sisters  exhibited  an  almost  unexampled 
precocity.  They  rivalled  the  celebrated  Misses 
Davidson  of  this  country  in  the  earliness  and 
perfection  of  their  mental  developement.  At 
twelve  Caroline  Sheridan  wrote  verses  which 
even  now  she  would  not  be  ashamed  to  see  in 
print,  and  at  seventeen  she  finished  “The 
Sorrows  of  Rosalie,”  which  gave  abundant 
promise  of  the  reputation  she  has  since  acquired. 

Two  years  afterward  she  was  married  to  the 
Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  a brother  to  Lord 
Grantley.  We  have  spoken  of  her  marriage  as 
unfortunate.  Hemans,  Tighe,  Lnndon  and 
Norton ! how  strange  that  all  the  great  poetesses 
of  England  who  wedded  at  all  should  have 
wedded  so  unhappily ! Mr.  Norton  proposed 
tor  Miss  Sheridan  when  she  was  sixteen ; but 
her  mother  postponed  the  contract  three  years, 
that  the  daughter  might  hrrself  be  better  quali- 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  VORTON. 


7 


fied  to  fix  her  choice.  In  this  period  she  became 
acquainted  with  one  whose  early  death  alone 
prevented  a union  more  consonant  to  her  feel- 
ings, and  at  nineteen  she  accepted  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Norton — a man  of  a lower  range  of  feelings, 
whose  only  nobility  was  in  his  blood.  The 
marriage,  as  might  have  been  anticipated,  was 
an  unblessed  one.  Yet  they  lived  years  to- 
gether— he  not  quite  insensible  to  the  honor  of 
being  the  husband  of  the  first  v/oman  in  the 
empire,  and  she  duteously  enduring  the  indiffer 
erice  and  neglect  of  a man  who  could  appreciate 
her  only  as  the  public  praised.  At  length,  in- 
cited by  the  political  enemies  of  Lord  Melbourne, 
then  Prime  Minister,  he  commenced  legal  pro- 
ceedings against  that  nobleman,  on  a charge 
involving  her  infidelity.  All  the  low  arts  which 
well-feed  attorneys  and  a malignant  prosecutor 
could  devise  were  put  in  requisition.  Forgery, 
perjury,  the  searching  scrutiny  of  private  pa- 
pers, the  exliibition  of  all  the  most  thoughtless 
and  trivial  incidents  and  conversations  in  the 
history  of  a “ woman  of  genius  living  in  the 
world,”  were  unavailing.  She  passed  the  ordeal 
with  her  white  robes  unsullied  by  the  slightest 


8 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  NORTON. 


stain.  But  an  acquittal  by  the  jury  and  the 
people  poorly  atoned  the  injustice  of  the  base 
accusation. 

Mrs.  Norton  now  lives  in  comparative  retire- 
ment. She  is  still  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  of  England.  Mr.  Willis,  in  his  “ Lady 
Jane,”  thus  described  her,  three  years  ago, — 

She  had  a low,  sweet  brow,  with  fringed  lakes 
Of  an  unfathom’d  darkness  couch’d  below; 

And  parted  on  that  brow  in  jetty  flakes 
The  raven  hair  swept  back  with  wavy  flow, 
Rounding  a head  of  such  a shape  as  makes 
The  old  Greek  marble  with  the  goddess  glow 
Her  nostril’s  breaching  arch  might  threaten  storm — 
But  love  lay  in  her  lips,  all  hush’d  and  warm. 

And  small  teeth,  glittering  white,  and  cheek  whose  reu 
Seem’d  Passion,  there  asleep,  in  rosy  nest : 

And  neck  set  on  as  if  to  bear  a head — 

May  be  a lily,  may  be  Juno’s  crest,— 

So  lightly  sprang  it  from  its  snow-white  bed! 

So  proudly  rode  above  the  swelling  breast! 

And  motion,  effortless  as  stars  awaking 

And  melting  out,  at  eve,  and  morning’s  breaking; 

And  voice  delicious  quite,  and  smile  that  came 
Slow  to  the  lips,  as  ’twere  the  heart  smiled  through 
These  charms  I've  been  particular  to  name, 

For  they  are,  like  an  inventory,  true. 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  NORTON. 


And  of  themselves  were  stuff  enough  for  fame ; 

But  she,  so  wondrous  fair,  has  genius  too, 

And  brilliantly  her  thread  of  life  is  spun — 

In  verse  and  beauty  both,  me  “Undying  One!” 

And  song— for  in  those  kindling  lips  there  lay 
Music  to  wing  all  utterance  outward  breaking. 

As  if  upon  the  ivory  teeth  did  play 
Angels,  who  caught  the  words  at  their  awaking, 

And  sped  them  with  sweet  melodies  away — 

The  hearts  of  those  who  listen'd  with  them  taking. 

The  poetry  of  Mrs.  Norton  is  often  distin- 
guished for  a masculine  energy,  and  always  for 
grace  and  harmony.  She  has  published  three 
volumes,  “The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,”  “The  Un- 
dying One,”  and  “The  Dream  and  other  Poems.” 
The  last,  and  the  better  portions  of  the  first  and 
second,  are  included  in  the  present  pubiicalion 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  SUTHERLAND. 


Once  more,  my  harp  ! once  more,  although  I thought 
Never  to  wake  thy  silent  strings  again, 

A soothing  dream  thy  gentle  chords  have  wrought 
And  my  sad  heart,  which  long  hath  dwelt  in  pain, 
Soars,  like  a wild  bird  from  a cypress  bough, 

Into  the  Poet’s  Heaven,  and  leaves  dull  grief  below! 

And  unto  Thee— the  beautiful  and  pure— 

Whose  lot  is  cast  amid  that  busy  world 
Where  only  sluggish  Dulness  dwells  secure. 

And  Fancy’s  generous  wing  is  faintly  furl’d; 

To  thee — whose  friendship  kept  its  equal  truth 
Through  the  most  dreary  hour  of  my  embitter’d  youth-^ 

I dedicate  the  lay.  Ah ! never  bard, 

In  days  when  Poverty  was  twin  with  song; 

Nor  wandering  harper,  lonely  and  ili-starr’d. 

Cheer'd  by  some  castle’s  chief,  and  harbor’d  long; 
Not  Scott’s  “ Last  Minstrel,”  in  his  trembling  lays. 
Woke  with  a warmer  heart  the  earnest  meed  of  praise  I 

For  easy  are  the  alms  the  rich  man  spares 
To  sons  of  Genius,  by  misfortune  bent, 

But  thou  gav’st  me,  what  wmman  seldom  dares, 
Belief— in  spite  of  many  a cold  dissent— 


10 


DEDICATION. 


11 


When,  slandered  and  maligned,  I stood  apart, 

From  those  whose  bounded  power,  hath  wrung,  not 
crushed,  my  heart. 

Then,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name, 

And  scoff’d  to  see  me  feebly  stem  tiie  tide; 

When  some  were  kind  on  whom  I had  no  claim. 

And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied, 

And  some,  who  might  have  battled  for  my  sake, 

Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  “ the  v/or'id”  would 
take— 

Thou  gavest  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor, 

Kind  words,  and  holy  wishes,  and  true  tears ; 

The  loved,  the  near  of  kin,  could  do  no  more. 

Who  changed  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying  years. 
But  clung  the  closer  when  I stood  forlorn, 

And  blunted  Slander’s  dart  with  their  indignant  scorn 

For  they  who  credit  crime  are  they  who  feel 
Their  own  hearts  weak  to  unresisted  sin  ; [steal 
Mem’ry,  not  judgment,  prompts  the  thoughts  which 
O’er  minds  like  these,  an  easy  faith  to  win ; 

And  tales  of  broken  truth  are  still  believed 

Most  readily  by  those  who  have  themselves  deceived. 

But,  like  a white  swan  down  a troubled  stream. 
Whose  ruffling  pinion  hath  the  power  to  fling 
Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  darkly  gleam 
And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  wing. 

So  Thou,  with  queenly  grace  and  gentle  pride. 

Along  the  world’s  dark  waves  in  purity  dost  glide; 


K 


DEDICATION. 


Thy  pale  and  pearly  cheek  was  never  made 
To  crimson  with  a faint  false-heartnd  shame: 

Thou  didst  not  shrink,— of  bitter  tongues  afraid, 

Who  hunt  in  packs  the  object  of  their  blame; 

To  Thee  the  sad  denial  still  held  true,  [drew 

For  from  thine  own  good  thoughts  thy  heart  its  mercy 

And,  though  my  faint  and  tributary  rhymes 
Add  nothing  to  the  glory  of  thy  day, 

Yet  every  Poet  hopes  that  after-times 
Shall  set  some  value  on  his  votive  lay, — 

And  I would  fain  one  gentle  deed  record 

Among  the  many  such  with  which  thy  life  is  stoied. 


Ilf# 


So,  when  these  lines,  made  in  a mournful  hour. 
Are  idly  open’d  to  the  Stranger’s  eye, 

A dream  of  Thee,  aroused  by  Fancy’s  power. 
Shall  be  the  first  to  wander  floating  by  ; 

And  they  w'ho  never  saw  thy  lovely  face, 

Shall  pause,— to  conjure  up  a vision  of  its  grace  1 


■ 


'Twas  summer  eve  ; the  changeful  beams  still 
play’d 

On  the  fir-bark  and  through  the  beechen  shade  ; 
Sfill  with  soft  crimson  glow’d  each  floating  cloud, 
Still  the  stream  glitter’d  where  the  willow  bow’d ; 
Still  the  pale  moon  sate  silent  and  alone, 

Nor  yet  the  stars  had  rallied  round  her  throne  ; 
Those  diamond  courtiers,  who,  while  yet  the 
West 

Wears  the  red  shield  above  his  dying  breast, 
Dare  not  assume  the  loss  they  all  desire. 

Nor  pay  their  homage  to  the  fainter  fire, 

But  wait  in  trembling  till  the  Sun’s  fair  light 
Fading,  shall  leave  them  free  to  welcome  night ! 

So  when  some  Chief,  whose  name  through 
realms  afar 

Was  still  the  watchword  of  successful  war, 

Met  by  the  fatal  hour  w'hich  waits  for  all, 

Is,  on  the  field  he  rallied,  forced  to  fall. 

The  conquerors  pause  to  watch  his  parting 
breath. 

Awed  by  the  terrors  of  that  mighty ^jdeath; 


14 


THE  DREAM. 


Nor  dared  the  meed  of  victory  to  claim, 

Nor  lift  the  standard  to  a meaner  name, 

Till  every  spark  of  soul  hath  ebb’d  away, 

And  leaves  what  was  a hero,  common  clay. 

Oh  ! Twilight  I Spirit  that  dost  render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments  ; melting  Heaven  with 
Earth, 

Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams; 

Thy  hour  to  all  is  welcome  ! Faint  and  sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant’s  homeward 
feet, 

Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil, 

Sees  the  low  sunset  gild  the  cultured  soil. 

And,  tho’  such  radiance  round  him  brightly 
glows, 

Marks  the  small  spark  his  cottage  window 
throws. 

Still  as  his  heart  forestals  his  w^eary  pace. 
Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face. 

Recalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life, 

His  rosy  children,  and  his  sunburnt  wife. 

To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labor  spent. 

The  rich  man’s  chariot  hath  gone  wdiiiiing  past, 
And  those  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  all  that  show'  of  pride, 
Then  to  their  tasks  turn’d  quietly  aside ; 

• But  him  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home, 
Fond  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come; 

The  fagot  sent  for  when  the  fire  grew  dim. 


The  frugal  meal  prepared,  are  all  for  him  ; 

For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy. 

For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  joy, 

For  him, — who  plods  his  saunterijig  way  along, 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song ! 

Dear  art  thou  to  the  lover,  thou  sweet  light, 
Fair  fleeting  sister  of  the  mournful  night ! 

As  in  impatient  hope  he  stands  apart, 
Companion’d  only  by  his  beating  heart, 

And  with  an  eager  fancy  oft  beholds 
The  vision  of  a white  robe’s  fluttering  folds 
Flit  through  the  grove,  and  gain  the  open  mead. 
True  to  the  hour  by  loving  hearts  agreed ! 

At  length  she  comes.  The  evening’s  holy  grace 
Mellows  the  glory  of  her  radiant  face  ; 

The  curtain  of  that  daylight  faint  and  pale 
Hangs  round  her  like  the  shrouding  of  a veil ; 
As»  turning  with  a bashful  timid  thought, 

From  the  dear  welcome  she  herself  hath  sought 
Her  shadowy  profile  drawn  against  the  sky 
Cheats,  while  it  charms,  his  fond  adoring  eye. 


Oh  ! dear  to  him,  to  all,  since  first  the  flowers 
Of  happy  Eden’s  consecrated  bowers 
Heard  the  low  breeze  along  the  branches  play. 
And  God’s  voice  bless  the  cool  hour  of  the  day. 
For  though  that  glorious  Paradise  be  lost, 
Though  earth  by  blighting  storms  be  roughly 
cross’d. 

Though  the  long  curse  demands  the  tax  of  sin, 
And  the  day’s  sorrows  with  the  day  begin, 


\\ 


VO 


THE  DREAM. 


That  hour,  once  sacred  to  God’s  presence,  still 
Keeps  itself  calmer  from  the  touch  of  ill, 

The  holiest  hour  of  Earth.  Tlieii  toil  doth 
cease — 

Then  from  the  yoke  the  oxen  find  release — 
Then  man  rests  pausing  from  his  niany  cares, 
And  the  world  teems  with  children’s  sunset 
prayers ! 

Then  innocent  things  seek  out  their  natural  rest, 
The  babe  sinks  slumbering  on  its  mother’s 
breast ; 

The  birds  beneath  their  leafy  covering  creep, 
Yea,  even  the  flowers  fold  up  their  buds  in  sleep  ; 
And  angels,  floating  by,  on  radiant  wings, 

Hear  the  low  sound  the  breeze  of  evening  brings, 
Catch  the  sweet  incense  as  it  floats  along, 

The  infant’s  prayer,  the  mother’s  cradle-song, 
And  bear  the  holy  gifts  to  worlds  afar, 

As  things  too  sacred  for  this  fallen  star. 

At  such  an  hour,  on  such  a summer  night, 
Silent  and  calm  in  its  transparent  light, 

A widow’d  parent  watch’d  her  slumbering  child. 
On  whose  young  face  the  sixteenth  summer 
smiled. 

Fair  was  the  face  she  watch’d  1 Nor  less, 
because 

Beauty’s  perfection  seemed  to  make  a pause, 
And  wait,  on  that  smooth  brow,  some  further 
touch. 

Some  spell  from  time, — the  great  magician,— 
such 


TEE  DREAM. 


17 


As  calls  the  closed  bud  out  of  hidden  gloom, 
And  bids  it  wake  to  glory,  light,  and  bloom.  . 
Girlish  as  yet,  but  with  the  gentle  grace 
Of  a young  fawn  in  its  low  resting-place, 

Her  folded  limbs  were  lying  : from  her  hand 
A group  of  wild  flowers — Nature’s  brightest 
band, 

Of  all  that  laugh  along  the  summer  fields, 

Of  all  the  sunny  hedge-row  freely  yields. 

Of  all  that  in  the  wild- wood  darkly  hide, 

Or  on  the  thyme-bank  wave  in  breezy  pride,— 
Show’d  that  the  weariness  which  closed  in  sleep 
So  tranquil,  child-like,  innocent,  and  deep. 

Nor  festal  gaiety,  nor  toilsome  hours. 

Had  brought ; but,  like  a flower  among  the 
flowers. 

She  had  been  wandering  ’neath  a summer  sky, 
Youth  on  her  lip  and  gladness  in  her  eye, 
Twisting  the  wild  rose  from  its  native  thorn. 
And  the  blue  scabious  from  the  sunny  corn  ; 
Smiling  and  singing  like  a spirit  fair 
That  walk’d  the  world,  but  had  no  dwelling 
there. 

And  still  (as  though  their  faintly-sbented  breath 
Preserv’d  a meek  fidelity  in  death) 

Each  late  imprison’d  blossom  fondly  lingers 
Within  the  touch  of  her  unconscious  fingers, 
Though,  languidly  unclasp’d,  that  hand  no  moro 
Guards  its  possession  of  the  rifled  store. 

So  wearily  she  lay  ; so  sweetly'slept , 

So  by  her  side  fond  watch  the  mother  kept ; 

2 


18 


THE  DREAM. 


And,  as  above  her  gentle  child  she  bent, 

So  like  they  seem’d  in  form  and  lineameat, 
You  might  have  deem’d  her  face  its  shadosv 
gave 

To  the  clear  mirror  of  a fountain’s  wave  ; 

Only  in  this  they  differ’d  ; that,  while  one 
Was  warm  and  radiant  as  the  summer  sun. 

The  other’s  smile  had  more  a moonlight  play 
For  many  tears  had  wept  its  glow  away  ; 

Yet  was  she  fair  ; of  loveliness  so  true, 

That  time,  which  faded,  never  could  subdue ; 
And  though  the  sleeper,  like  a half-blown  rose, 
Show’d  bright  as  angels  in  her  soft  repose. 
Though  bluer  veins  ran  through  each  snowy  lid, 
Curtaining  sweet  eyes,  by  long  dark  lasheii 
hid — 

Eyes  that  as  yet  had  never  learnt  to  weep. 

But  woke  up  smiling,  like  a child’s,  from 
sleep ; — 

Though  fainter  lines  were  pencill’d  on  the  brow, 
Which  cast  soft  shadow  on  the  orbs  below ; 
Though  deeper  color  flush’d  her  youthful  cheek, 
In  its  smooth  curve  more  joyous  and  less  meek, 
And  fuller  seem’d  the  small  and  crimson  mouth, 
With  teeth  like  those  that  glitter  in  the  south — 
She  had  but  youth’s  superior  brightness,  such 
As  the  skill’d  painter  gives  with  flattering  touch 
When  he  v/ould  picture  every  lingering  grace 
Which  once  shone  brighter  in  some  copied  face  j 
And  it  was  compliment,  whene’er  she  smiled, 
To  say,  “ Thou’rt  like  thy  mother,  my  fair 
child!” 


THE  DREAM. 


19 


Sweet  is  the  image  of  the  brooding  dove ! — 
Holy  as  Heaven  a mother’s  tender  love  ! 

The  love  of  many  prayers  and  rnaiiy  tears, 
Which  changes  not  with  dim  declining  years — 
The  o7tly  love  which  on  this  teeming  earth 
Asks  no  return  from  Passion’s  wayward  birth  ; 
The  only  love  that,  with  a touch  divine, 
Displaces  from  the  heart’s  most  secret  shrine 
']'he  idol  Self.  Oh  ! prized  beneath  thy  due 
When  life’s  untried  affections  all  are  new — 
Love,  from  whose  calmer  hope  and  holier  rest 
(Like  a fledged  bird,  impatient  of  the  nest) 

I’he  human  heart,  rebellious,  springs  to  seek 
Delights  more  vehement,  in  ties  more  weak  ; 
How  strange  to  us  appears,  in  after-life. 

That  term  of  mingled  carelessness  and  strife, 
When  guardianship  so  gentle  gall’d  our  pride, 
When  it  was  holiday  to  leave  thy  side. 

When,  with  dull  ignorance  that  would  not  learn. 
We  lost  those  hours  that  never  can  return — 
Hours,  whose  most  sweet  communion  Mature 
meant 

Should  be  in  confidence  and  kindness  spent, 
I’hat  we  (hereafter  mourning)  might  believe 
In  human  faith,  though  all  around  deceive  ; 
Might  weigh  against  the  sad  and  startling  crowd 
Of  ills  which  wound  the  weak  and  chill  the  proud. 
Of  woes  ’neath  which  (despite  of  stubborn  will, 
Philosophy’s  vain  boast,  and  erring  skill) 

The  strong  heart  downward  like  a willow  bends, 
Failure  of  love, — and  treachery  of  friends, — 
Our  recollections  of  the  undefiled. 


THE  DREAM. 


f 


The  sainted  tie,  of  parent  and  of  child ! 

Oh  ! happy  days  I Oh  years  that  glided  by, 
Scarce  chronicled  by  one  poor  passing  sigh  ! 
When  the  dark  storm  sweeps  past  us,  and  the 
soul 

Struggles  with  fainting  strength  to  reach  the 
goal ; 

When  the  false  baits  that  lured  us  only  cloy, 
What  would  we  give  to  grasp  your  vanish’d 
joy  ! 

From  the  cold  quicksands  of  Life’s  treacherous 
shore 

The  backward  light  our  anxious  eyes  explore, 
Measure  the  miles  our  wandering  feet  have  come, 
Sinking  heart-weary,  far  away  from  home, 

• Recall  the  voice  that  whisper’d  love  and  peace 
The  smile  that  bid  our  early  sorrows  cease. 

And  long  to  bow  our  grieving  heads,  and  weep 
Low  on  the  gentle  breast  that  lull’d  us  first  to 
sleep  ! 


Cl 


M 


Ah  ! bless’ d are  they  for  whom  ’mid  all  their 
pains 

That  faithful  and  unalter’d  love  remains  ; 

Who,  Life  wreck’d  round  them, — hunted  from 
their  rest, — 

And,  by  all  else  forsaken  or  distress’d, — 

Claim,  in  o?ie  heart,  their  sanctuary  and  shrine — 
As  I,  my  Mother,  claim’d  my  place  in  thine  ! 


Oft,  since  that  hour,  in  sadness  I retrace 
My  childhood’s  vision  of  thy  calm  sweet  face  • 


Oft  see  thy  form,  its  mournful  beauty  shrouded 
In  thy  black  weeds,  and  coif  of  widow’s  woe  ; 
Thy  dark  expressive  eyes  all  dim  and  clouded 
By  that  deep  wretchedness  the  lonely  knov/  ; 
Stifling  ihy  grief,  to  hear  some  weary  task 
Conn’d  by  unwilling  lips,  with  listless  air, 
Hoarding  ihy  means,  lest  future  need  might  ask 
More  than  the  widow’s  pittance  then  could 
spare. 

Hidden,  forgotten  by  the  great  and  gay. 
Enduring  sorrow,  not  by  fits  and  starts, 

But  the  long  self-denial,  day  by  day. 

Alone  amidst  thy  brood  of  careless  hearts ! 
Striving  to  guide,  to  teach,  or  to  restrain. 

The  young  rebellious  spirits  crowding  round, 
Who  saw  not,  knew  not,  felt  not  for  thy  pain. 
And  could  not  comfort — yet  had  power  to 
wound  ! 

Ah  ! how  my  selfish  heart,  which  since  hath 
grown 

Familiar  with  deep  trials  of  its  own. 

With  riper  judgment  looking  to  the  past. 
Regrets  the  careless  days  that  flew  so  fast. 
Stamps  with  remorse  each  wasted  hour  of  time. 
And  darkens  every  folly  into  crime  ! 

Warriors  and  statesmen  have  their  meed  of 
praise,  < 

And  what  they  do  or  suffer  men  record  ; 

But  the  long  sacrifice  of  woman’s  days 

Passes  without  a thought — without  a word ; 
And  many  a holy  struggle  for  the  sake 


22 


THE  DREAM. 


Of  duties  Sternly,  faithfully  fulfiU'd — 

F or  which  the  anxious  mind  must  watch  and 
wake, 

And  the  strong  feelings  of  the  heart  be 
still’d,— 

Goes  by  unheeded  as  the  summer  wind, 

And  leaves  no  memory  and  no  trace  behind  ! 
Yet,  it  may  be,  more  lofty  courage  dwells 
In  one  meek  heart  which  braves  an  adverse 
fate, 

Than  his,  whose  ardent  soul  indignant  swells 
Warm’d  by  the  fight,  or  cheer’d  through  high 
debate : 

The  Soldier  dies  surrounded  ; could  he  live 
Alone  to  suffer,  and  alone  to  strive  ? 

Answer,  ye  graves,  whose  suicidal  gloom 
Shows  deeper  horror  than  a common  tomb  ! 
Who  sleep  within  ? The  men  who  would  evade 
An  unseen  lot  of  which  they  felt  afraid. 
Embarrassment  of  means,  which  work’d  an- 
noy,— 

A past  remorse, — a future  blank  of  joy, — 

The  sinful  rashness  of  a blank  despair, — 

These  were  the  strokes  which  sent  your  victims 
there. 

In  many  a village  churchyard’s  simple  grave, 
Where  all  unmark’d  the  cypress  branches  wave 
In  many  a vault  where  Death  could  only  claim? 
The  brief  inscription  of  a woman’s  name  ; 

Of  different  ranks,  and  different  degrees, 

From  daily  labor  to  a life  of  ease, 


THE  DREAM.  23 

(From  the  rich  wife  who  through  the  weary  day 
Wept  in  her  jewels,  griefs  unceasing  prey, 

To  the  poor  soul  who  trudged  o’er  marsh  and 
moor, 

And  with  her  baby  begg’d  from  door  to  door, — ) 
Lie  hearts,  which,  ere  they  found  that  last 
release, 

Had  lost  all  memory  of  the  blessing  “ Peace 
Hearts,  whose  long  struggle  through  unpitied 
years 

None  saw  but  Him  who  marks  the  mourner’s 
tears ; 

The  obscurely  noble  ! who  evaded  not 
The  woe  which  He  had  will’d  should  be  their 
lot, 

But  nerved  themselves  to  bear  ! 

Of  such  art  thou. 

My  Mother  ! With  thy  calm  and  holy  brow, 
And  high  devoted  heart,  which  suffer’d  still 
Unmurmuring,  through  each  degree  of  ill. 

And,  because  Fate  hath  will’d  that  mine  should 
be 

A Poet’s  soul  (at  least  in  my  degree,) — 

And  that  my  verse  would  faintly  shadow  forth 
What  I have  seen  of  pure  unselfish  worth, — 
Therefore  I speak  of  Thee  ; that  those  who  read 
That  trust  in  woman,  which  is  still  my  creed, 
Thy  early-widow’d  image  may  recall 
And  greet  thy  nature  as  the  type  of  all ! 

Enough  ! With  eyes  of  fond  unwearied  love 
The  Mother  of  my  story  watch’d  above 


Her  sleeping  child  ; and,  as  she  views  the  grace 

And  blushing  beauty  of  that  girlish  face, 

Her  thoughts  roam  back  through  change  of  time 
and  tide, 

Since  first  Heaven  sent  the  blessing  by  her  side. 

In  that  sweet  vision  she  again  receives 
The  snow-white  cradle,  where  that  tiny  head 

Lay,  like  a small  bud  folded  in  its  leaves, 
Foster’d  with  dew  by  tears  of  fondness  shed  ; 

Each  infantine  event,  each  dangerous  hour 
Which  pass’d  with  threatening  o’er  its  fragile 
form, 

Her  hope,  her  anguish,  as  the  tender  flower 
Bloom’d  to  the  sun,  or  sicken’d  in  the  storm. 

In  memory’s  magic  mirror  glide  along. 

And  scarce  she  notes  the  different  scene 
around. 

And  scarce  her  lips  refrain  the  cradle-song 
Which  sooth’d  that  infant  with  its  lulling 
sound  ! 

But  the  dream  changes ; quiet  years  roll  on  ; 
That  dawn  of  frail  existence  fleets  away, 

And  she  beholds  beneath  the  summer  sun 
A blessed  sight ; a little  child  at  play. 

The  soft  light  falls  upon  its  golden  hair. 

And  shows  a brow  intelligently  mild  ; 

No  more  a cipher  in  this  world  of  care. 

Love  cheers  and  chides  that  happy  conscious 
child. 

No  more  unheeding  of  her  watchful  love, 

Pride  to  excel,  its  docile  spirit  stirs ; 


THE  DREAM. 


25 


Retire  t and  hope  its  tiny  bosom  in  eve, 

And  looks  of  fondness  brightly  answer  hers; 

O’er  the  green  meadow,  and  the  broomy  hill, 
In  restless  joy  it  bounds  and  darts  along  ; 

Or  through  the  breath  of  evening,  low  and  still, 
Carols  with  mirthful  voice  its  welcome  song. 

Again  the  vision  changes ; from  her  view 
The  Child’s  dear  love  and  antic  mirth  are 
gone ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  with  cheek  of  rose-leaf  hue, 
And  fair  slight  form,  and  low  and  silvery  tone, 

Rises  the  sweetest  spirit  Thought  can  call 
From  memory’s  distant  worlds — the  fairy 
Girl  ; 

Whose  heart  her  childish  pleasures  still  enthrall. 
Whose  unbound  hair  still  floats  in  careless  curl , 

But  in  whose  blue  and  meekly  lifted  eyes, 

And  in  whose  shy,  though  sweet  and  cordial 
smile. 

And  in  whose  changeful  blushes,  dimly  rise 
Shadows  and  lights  that  were  not  seen  ere- 
while  : 

Shadows  and  lights  that  speak  of  woman’s  love. 
Of  all  that  makes  or  mars  her  fate  below  ; 

Mysterious  prophecies,  which  Time  must  prove 
More  bright  in  glory,  or  more  dark  with  woe  1 

And  that  soft  vision  also  wanders  by. 

Melting  in  fond  and  innocent  smiles  away, 

Till  the  loved  Real  meets  the  watchful  eye 
Of  her  who  thus  recall’d  a former  day  ; 

The  gentle  daughter,  for  whose  precious  sake 


26 


THE  DREAM. 


Her  widow’d  heart  had  struggled  with  its 
pain, 

And  still  through  lonely  grief  refused  to  break, 
Because  (hat  tie  to  Earth  did  yet  remain. 
Now,  as  she  fondly  gazed,  a few  meek  tears 
Stole  down  her  cheek  : for  she  that  slumber’d 
there, 

The  beautiful,  the  loved  of  many  years, 

A bride  betroth’d  must  leave  her  fostering 
care  ; 

Woo’d  in  another’s  home  apart  to  dwell — 

Oh  ! might  that  other  love  but  half  as  well  { 

As  if  the  mournful  wish  had  touch’d  her  heart. 
The  slumbering  maiden  woke,  with  sudden 
start ; 

Turn’d,  with  a dazzled  and  intense  surprise. 

On  that  fond  face  her  bright,  bewilder’d  eyes  ; 
Gazed  round  on  each  familiar  object  near. 

As  though  she  doubted  yet  if  sense  was  clear , 
Cover’d  her  brow  and  sigh’d,  as  though  to  wake 
Had  power  some  spell  of  happy  thought  to  break ; 
Then  murmur’d,  in  a low  and  earnest  tone, 

“ Oh  ! is  that  blessed  dream  for  ever  gone  ?” 

Strange  is  the  power  of  dreams  ! Who  hath 
not  felt. 

When  in  the  light  such  visions  melt. 

How  the  veil’d  soul,  though  struggling  to  be  free, 
Ruled  by  that  deep  unfathom’d  mystery. 
Wakes,  haunted  by  the  thoughts  of  good  or  ill, 
Whose  shadowy  influence  pursues  us  still  ? 


Sometimes  romorse  doth  weigh  our  spirits 
down  ; 

Some  crime  committed  earns  Heaven’s  angriest 
frown  ; 

Some  awful  sin,  in  which  the  tempted  heart 

Hath  scarce,  perhaps,  forborne  its  waking  part, 

Brings  dreams  of  judgment ; loud  the  thunders 
roll. 

The  heavens  shrink  blacken’d  like  a flaming 
scroll ; 

We  faint,  we  die,  beneath  the  avenging  rod, 

And  vainly  hide  from  our  offended  God. 

For  oh  ! though  fancy  change  our  mortal  lot. 

And  rule  our  slumbers,  Conscience  sleepeth 
not  ; 

That  strange  sad  dial,  by  its  own  true  light. 

Points  to  our  thoughts,  how  dark  soe’er  the 
night, 

Still  by  oar  pillow  watchful  guard  it  keeps. 

And  bids  the  sinner  tremble  while  he  sleeps. 


Sometimes,  with  fearful  .dangers  doom’d  to 
cope, 

’Reft  of  each  wild  and  visionary  hope, 

Stabb’d  with  a thousand  wounds,  w^e  struggle 
still. 

The  hand  that  tortures,  powerless  to  kill. 
Sometimes  ’mid  ocean  storms,  in  fearful  strife, 
We  stern  the  w^ave,  and  shrieking,  gasp  for  life, 
While  crowding  round  us,  faces  rise  and  gleam. 
Some  known  and  loved,  some,  pictures  of  our 
dream 


O ' 


THE  DREAM. 


High  on  the  buoyant  waters  wildly  toss’ d — 
Low  in  its  foaming  caverns  darkly  lost — 

I'liose  flitting  forms  the  dangerous  hour  partake, 
Cling  to  our  aid,  or  suflTerfor  our  sake. 
Conscious  of  present  life,  the  slumbering  soul 
Si  ill  floats  us  onward,  as  the  billows  roll, 

Till,  snatch’d  from  death,  we  seem  to  touch  the 
strand, 

Rise  on  the  shoreward  wave,  and  dash  to  land  ! 
Alone  we  come:  the  forms  whose  wild  array 
Gleam’d  round  us  while  we  struggled,  fade 
away — 

We  know  not,  reck  not,  w'ho  the  danger  shared, 
But,  vaguely  dreaming,  feel  that  we  are  spared. 

Sometimes  a grief,  of  fond  aflfection  born. 
Gnaws  at  our  heart,  and  bids  us  weep  till  morn ; 
Some  anguish,  copied  from  our  waking  fears, 
Wakes  the  eternal  fount  of  human  teai‘s. 

Sends  us  to  watch  some  vision’d  bed  of  death. 
Hold  the  faint  hand,  and  catch  the  parting  breath, 
Where  those  we  prized  the  most,  and  loved  the 
best, 

Seem  darkly  sinking  to  the  grave’s  long  rest ; 
Lo  ! in  our  arms  they  fade,  they  faint,  they  die. 
Before  our  eyes  the  funeral  train  sweeps  by ! 

We  hear  the  orphan’s  sob — the  widow’s  wail— 
O’er  our  dim  senses  woeful  thoughts  prevail. 
Till,  with  a burst  of  grief,  the  spell  we  break, 
And,  weeping  for  th’  imagined  loss,  awake. 

Ah  me  ! from  dreams  like  these  aroused  at 
length, 


d 


% 


1 


THE  DREAM. 


29 


How  leaps  the  spirit  to  its  former  strength  ! 
What  memories  crowd  the  newly  conscious 
brain, 

What  gleams  of  rapture,  and  what  starts  of  pain  ! 
Till  from  the  soul  the  heavy  mists  stand  clear, 
All  wanes  and  fades  that  seem’d  so  darkly  drear, 
The  sun’s  fair  rays  those  shades  of  death  destroy, 
And  passionate  thankfulness  and  tears  of  joy 
Swell  at  our  hearts,  as,  gazing  on  his  beam. 
We  start,  and  cry  aloud,  “Thank  Heaven, 
’twas  but  a dream  !” 

Bu;t  there  are  visions  of  a fairer  kind, 
Thoughts  fondly  cherish’d  by  the  slumbering 
mind. 

Which,  when  they  vanish  from  the  waking 
brain. 

We  close  our  eyes,  and  long  to  dream  again. 
Their  dim  voice  calls  to  our  I'orsaken  side 
I’hose  who  betray’d  us,  seeming  true  and  tried  ; 
Those  whom  the  fast  receding  waves  of  lime 
Have  floated  from  us  ; those  who  in  the  prime 
And  glory  of  our  young  life’s  eagle  flight 
Shone  round  like  rays,  encircling  us  with  light, 
And  gave  the  bright  similitude  of  truth 
To  fair  illusions — vanish’d  with  our  youth. 

They  bring  again  the  tryst  of  early  love, 

(That  passionate  hope,  all  other  hopes  above  lit 
Bid  the  pale  hair,  long  shrouded  in  the  grave, 
Round  the  young  head  in  floating  ringlets  wave, 
And  fill  the  air  with  echoes.  Gentle  words. 
Low  laughter,  and  the  singing  of  sweet  birds^ 


30  THE  DREAM. 

Come  round  us  then  ; and  dropping  of  light 
boughs, 

Whose  shadow  could  not  cool  our  burning  brows, 
And  lilac- blossoms,  scenting  the  warm  air, 

And  long  laburnums,  fragile,  bright,  and  fair  ; 
And  murmuring  breezes  through  the  green 
leaves  straying, 

And  rippling  waters  in  the  sunshine  playing, 

All  that  around  our  slumbering  sense  can  fling 
I'Ac  glory  of  some  half-forgotten  spring  ’ 

They  bring  again  the  fond  approving  gaze 
Of  old  true  friends,  who  mingled  love  with 
praise  ; 

When  Fame  (that  cold  bright  guiding-star  be 
low) 

Took  from  affection’s  light  a borrow’d  glow — 
And,  strong  in  all  the  might  of  earnest  thought, 
Through  the  long  studious  night  untired  we 
wrought. 

That  others  might  the  morning  hours  beguile, 
With  the  fond  triumph  of  their  wondering  smile. 
What  though  those  dear  approving  smiles  be 
gone. 

What  though  we  strive  neglected  and  alone. 
What  though  no  voice  nom  mourns  our  hope’s 
alloy, 

Nor  in  that  hour  of  triumph  gives  us  joy  ? 

In  dreams  the  days  return  when  this  w'as  not. 
When  strong  affection  sooth’d  our  toilsome  lot : 
Chesr’d,  loved,  admonish’d,  lauded,  we  aspire. 
And  the  sick  soul  regains  its  former  fire. 


Beneath  the  influence  of  this  fond  spell, 
Happy,  contented,  bless’d,  we  seem  to  dwell ; 
Sweet  faces  shine  with  love’s  own  tender  ray, 
Which  frown,  or  coldly  turn  from  us,  by  day  ; 
The  lonely  orphan  hears  a parent’s  voice  ; 

Sad  childless  mothers  once  again  rejoice  ; 

The  poor  deserted  seems  a happy  bride  ; 

And  the  long  parted  wander  side  by  side. 

Ah,  vain  deceit ; Awakening  with  a start, 
Sick  grows  the  beatings  of  the  troubled  heart  ; 
Silence,  like  some  dark  mantle,  drops  around. 
Quenching  th’  imagined  voice’s  welcome  sound, 
Again  the  soul  repeats  its  old  farewells, 

Again  recalls  sad  hours  and  funeral  knells  ; 
Again,  as  daylight  opens  on  their  view. 

The  orphan  shrinks,  the  mother  mourns  anew ; 
Till  clear  we  feel,  as  fades  the  morning  star. 
How  left,  how  lonely,  how  oppress’d  we  are  ! 

And  other  dreams  exist,  more  vague  and 
bright 

Than  memory  ever  brought  to  cheer  the  night 
Most  to  the  young  and  happy  do  they  come, 

To  those  who  know  no  shelter  but  of  home  ; 

To  those  of  whom  the  inspired  writer  spoke. 
When  from  his  lips  the  words  prophetic  broke, 
Which  (conscious  of  the  strong  and  credulous 
spell 

Experience  only  in  the  heart  can  quell) 
Promised  the  nearer  glimpse  of  perfect  truth 
Not  to  cold  wisdom,  but  to  fervent  youth  ; 


32 


THE  DREAM. 


Each,  in  their  measure,  caught  its  fitful  gleams— 
The  young  saw  visions,  and  the  old  dream’ d 
dreams. 

The  young  ! Oh  ! what  should  wandering 
fancy  bring 

In  life’s  first  spring-time  but  the  thoughts  of 
spring  ? 

World  without  winter,  blooming  amaranth 
bowers. 

Garlands  of  brightness  wreath’d  from  change- 
less flowers  ; 

Where  shapes  like  angels  wander  to  and  fro, 
Unwing’d,  but  glorious,  in  the  noontide  glow, 
Which  steeps  the  hills,  the  dales,  the  earth,  the 
sea. 

In  one  soft  flood  of  golden  majesty. 

In  this  world, — so  create, — no  sighs  nor  tears,— 
No  sadness  brought  with  lapse  ofvarying  years, — 
No  cold  betrayal  of  the  trusting  heart, — 

No  knitting  up  of  love  fore-doom’d  to  part, — 
No  pain,  deformity,  nor  pale  disease, — 

No  wars, — no  tyranny, — nor  fears  that  freeze 
"I’hc  rapid  current  of  the  restless  blood, — 

Nor  effort  scorn’d, — nor  act  misunderstood, — 
No  dark  remorse  for  ever-haunting  sin, — 

.But  all  at  peace  without, — at  rest  within  ; 

And  hopes  which  gild  d'hought’s  wildest  wakii^g 
hours, 

Scatter’d  around  us  carelessly  as  flowers. 

Oh  ! Paradise,  in  vain  didst  thou  depart* 
Thine  image  still  is  stamp’d  on  every  heart  \ 


THE  DKEAM. 


33 


Though  mourning  man  in  vain  may  seek  to  trace 
The  site  of  that  which  was  his  dwelling-place, 
Though  the  four  glittering  rivers  now  divide 
No  realms  of  beauty  with  their  rolling  tide. 
Each  several  life  yet  opens  with  the  view 
Of  that  unblighted  world  where  Adam  drew 
The  breath  of  being:  in  each  several  mind, 
However  cramp’d,  and  fetter’d,  and  confined, 
The  innate  power  of  beauty  folded  lies, 

And,  like  a bud  beneath  the  summer  skies. 
Blooms  out  in  youth  through  many  a radiant  day 
Though  in  life’s  winter  frost  it  dies  away. 

From  such  a vision,  bright  with  all  the  fame 
Her  youth,  her  innocence,  her  hope  could  frame. 
The  maiden  woke : and,  when  her  shadowy 
gaze 

Had  lost  the  dazzled  look  of  wild  amaze 
Turn’d  on  her  mother  when  she  first  awoke, 
Thus  to  her  questioning  glance  she  answering 
spoke : — 

“ Methought,  oh ! gentle  Mother,  by  thy  side 
I dwelt  no  more  as  now,  but  through  a wide 
And  sweet  world  wander’d ; nor  even  then  alone ; 
For  ever  in  that  dream’s  soft  light  stood  one, 

I know  not  who, — yet  most  familiar  seem’d 
The  fond  companionship  of  which  I dream’ d ; 

A Brother’s  love,  is  but  a name  to  me  ; 

A Father’s,  brighten’d  not  my  infancy  ; 

Tc  me  in  childhood’s  years,  no  stranger’s  face 
Took,  from  long  habit,  friendship’s  holy  grace ; 


f'\J: 


34 


THE  DREAM. 


My  life  hath  still  been  lone,  and  needed  not, 

Heaven  knows,  more  perfect  love  than  was  my  j:,  i 

■> 

In  thy  dear  heart : how  dream’d  I then,  sweet 
Mother, 

Of  any  love  but  thine,  who  knew  no  other  ? 


“We  seem’d,  this  shadow  and  myself,  to  be 
Together  by  the  blue  and  boundless  sea ; 

No  settled  home  was  present  to  my  thought — 
No  other  form  my  clouded  fancy  brought ; 

This  one  Familiar  Presence  still  beguiled 
My  every  thought,  and  look’d  on  me  and  smiled. 
Fair  stretch’d  in  beauty  lay  the  glittering  strand. 
With  low  green  copses  sloping  from  the  land  ; 
And  tangled  underwood  and  sunny  fern. 

And  flowers  whose  humble  names  none  cared 
to  learn. 

Small  starry  wild  flowers,  white  and  gold  and 
blue. 

With  leaves  turn’d  crimson  by  the  autumnal  hue, 
Bask’d  in  the  fervor  of  the  noontide  glow. 
Whose  hot  rays  pierced  the  thirsty  roots  below. 
The  floating  nautilus  rose  clear  and  pale, 

As  though  a spirit  trimm’d  its  fairy  sail. 

White  and  transparent;  and  beyond  it  gleam’d 
Such  light  as  never  yet  on  Ocean  beam’d  : 

And  pink-lipp’d  shells,  and  many  color’d  weeds, 
And  long  brown  bulbous  things  like  jaspar  beads, 
And  glistening  pearls  in  beauty  faint  and  fair, 
And  all  things  strange,  and  wonderful,  and  rara, 
Whose  true  existence  travellers  make  known, 


^ ' 


THE  DREAM. 


35 


Seem’d  scatter’d  there,  and  easily  my  own. 
And  then  we  w'ove  our  ciphers  in  the  sands, 

All  fondly  intertwined  by  loving  hands ; 

And  laugh’d  to  see  the  rustling  snow-white 
spray 

Creep  o’er  the  names,  and  wash  their  trace 
away. 

And  the  storm  came  not,  though  the  white  foam 
curl'd 

In  lines  of  brightness  far  along  the  coast ; 
Though  many  a ship,  with  swelling  sails  un- 
furl’d. 

From  the  mid-sea  to  sheltering  haven  cross’d; 
Though  the  wild  billows  heaved,  and  rose,  and 
broke. 

One  o’er  the  other  with  a restless  sound, 

And  the  deep  spirit  of  the  wind  awoke, 

Ruffling  in  wrath  each  glassy  verdant  mound  ; 
While  onward  roll’d  that  army  of  huge  waves. 
Until  the  foremost,  with  exulting  roar. 

Rose,  proudly  crested,  o’er  his  brother  slaves, 
And  dash’d  triumphant  on  the  groaning  shore  ! 
For  then  the  Moon  rose  up,  Night’s  mournful 
Queen, 

‘Walking  with  white  feet  o’er  the  troubled 
Sea,’ 

And  all  grew  still  again,  as  she  had  been 
Heaven’s  messenger  to  bring  Tranquility ; 
Till,  pale  and  tender,  on  the  glistening  main 
She  sank  and  smiled  like  one  who  loves  in  vain. 
And  still  we  linger’d  by  that  shadowy  strand. 
Happy,  yet  full  of  thought,  hand  link’d  in  hand  ; 


36 


THE  DREAM. 


The  hush’d  waves  rippling  softly  at  our  feet, 
The  night-breeze  freshening  o’er  the  summer’s 
heat ; 

With  our  hearts  beating,  and  our  gazing  eyes 
Fix’d  on  the  star-light  of  those  deep  blue  skies, 
Blessing  ‘ the  year,  the  hour,  the  place  the 
time ;’ 

While  sounded,  faint  and  far,  some  turret’s 
midnight  chime. 

“ It  pass’d,  that  vision  of  the  Ocean’s  might ! 

I know  not  how,  for  in  my  slumbering  mind 
There  was  no  movement,  all  was  shifting  light. 
Through  which  we  floated  with  the  wander- 
ing wind ; 

And,  still  together,  in  a different  scene. 

We  look’d  on  England’s  woodland,  fresh  and 
green. 

No  perfume  of  the  cultured  rose  was  there, 
Wooing  the^ senses  with  its  garden  smell, — 
Nor  snow-white  lily, — called  so  proudly  fair. 
Though  by  the  poor  man’s  cot  she  loves  to 
dwell. 

Nor  finds  his  little  garden  scant  of  room 
To  bid  her  stately  buds  in  beauty  bloom  ; — 
Nor  jasmin,  with  her  pale  stars  shining  through 
The  myrtle  darkness  of  her  leaf’s  green  hue, — 
Nor  helitrope,  whose  gray  and  heavy  wreath 
Mimics  the  orchard  blossoms’  fruity  breath — 
Nor  clustering  dahlia,  with  its  scentless  flowers 


THE  DREAM.  37 

Cheating  the  heart  through  autumn’s  faded 
hours, — 

Nor  bright  chrysanthimum,  whose  train’d  array 
Still  makes  the  rich  man’s  winter  path  look  gay, 
And  bc^s  its  hardy  head  when  wild  winds  blow, 
To  free  its  petals  from  the  fallen  snow ; — 

Nor. yet  carnation;” — 

(Thou,  beloved  of  all 

The  plants  that  thrive  at  Art  or  Nature’s  call. 
By  one  who  greets  thee  with  a weary  sigh 
As  the  dear  friend  of  happy  days  gone  by  ; 

By  one  who  names  thee  last,  but  loves  thee 
first,  ^ 

Of  all  the  flowers  a garden  ever  nursed  ; 

The  mute  remembrancer  and  gentle  token 
Of  links  which  heavy  hands  have  roughly 
broken. 

Welcomed  through  many  a Summer  with  the 
same 

Unalter’d  gladness  as  when  first  ye  came, 

And  welcomed  still,  though — as  in  later  years 
We  often  welcome  pleasant  things — with  tears !) 

I wander ! In  the  Dream  these  had  no  place — 
Nor  Sorrow  ; — all  was  Nature’s  freshest  grace. 

“There,  wild  geranium,  with  its  woolly  stem 
And  aromatic  breath,  perfumed  the  glade  ; 
And  fairy  speedwell,  like  some  sapphire  gem. 
Lighted  with  purple  sparks  the  hedge-row’s 
shade  ; 

And  woodbine,  with  her  tinted  calyxes, 


38  THE  DKEAM. 

And  dog-rose  glistening  with  the  dews  of 
morn, 

And  tangled  wreaths  of  tufted  clematis, 

Whose  blossoms  pale  the  careless  eye  may 
scorn,  ^ 

(As  green  and  light  her  fairy  mantles  fall 
To  hide  the  rough  hedge  or  the  crumbling  wall,) 
But  in  whose  breast  the  laden  wild-bees  dive 
For  the  best  riches  of  their  teeming  hive  ; 

“ There,  sprang  the  sunny  cricket ; there, 
was  spread 

The  fragile  silver  of  the  spider’s  thread, 
Stretching  from  blade  to  blade  of  emerald  grass, 
Unbroken,  till  some  human  footstep  pass  ; 
There,  by  the  rippling  stream  that  murmur’d  on. 
Now  seen,  now  hidden — half  in  light,  half  Sun — 
The  darting  dragon-fly,  with  sudden  gleam. 
Shot,  as  it  went,  a gold  and  purple  beam  ; 

And  the  fish  leap’d  within  the  deeper  pool. 

And  the  green  trees  stretch’d  out  their  branches 
cool. 

Where  many  a bird  hush’d  in  her  peopled  nest 
The  unfledged  darlings  of  her  feather’d  breast. 
Listening  her  mate’s  clear  song,  in  that  sweet 
grove 

Where  all  around  breathed  happiness  and  love  ! 

And  while  we  talk’d  the  summer  hours  flew 
fast. 

As  hours  may  fly,  with  those  whose  love  is 
young ; 

Who  fear  no  future,  and  who  know  no  past 


THE  DREAM. 


39 


Dating  existence  from  the  hope  that  sprung 
Up  in  their  hearts  with  such  a sudden  light,  . 
That  all  beyond  shows  dark  and  blank  as  night. 
**  Until  methought  we  trod  a wide  flat  heath, 
Where  yew  and  cypress  darkly  seem’d  to 
wave 

O’er  countless  tombs,  so  beautiful,  that  death 
Seem’d  here  to  make  a garden  of  the  grave  ! 
All  that  is  holy,  tender,  full  of  grace. 

Was  sculptured  on  the  monuments  around, 
And  many  a line  the  musing  eye  could  trace, 
Which  spoke  unto  the  heart  without  a sound 
There  lay  the  warrior  and  the  son  of  song. 

And  there — in  silence  till  the  judgment-day- 
The  orator,  whose  all-persuading  tongue 
Had  moved  the  nations  with  resistless  sway 
There  slept  pale  men  whom  science  taught  to 
climb 

Restlessly  upward  all  their  laboring  youth  ; 
Who  left,  half  conquer’d,  secrets  which  in  time 
Burst  on  mankind  in  ripe  and  glorious  truth. 
He  that  had  gazed  upon  the  steadfast  stars. 

And  could  foretell  the  dark  eclipse’s  birth. 
And  when  red  comets  in  their  blazing  cars 
Should  sweep  above  the  awed  and  troubled 
earth ; — 

He  that  had  sped  brave  vessels  o’er  the  seas, 
Which  swiftly  bring  the  wanderer  to  his  home. 
Uncanvass’d  ships,  which  move  without  a 
breeze. 

Their  bright  wheels  dashing  through  the 
ocean  foam ; — 


10 


THE  DREAM. 


All,  who  in  this  life’s  bounded  brief  career 
Had  shone  amongst  or  served  their  fellow- 
men, 

And  left  a name  embalm’d  in  glory  here, 

Lay  calmly  buried  on  that  magic  plain. 

And  he  who  wander’d  with  me  in  my  dream. 
Told  me  their  histories  as  we  onward  went. 
Till  the  grave  shone  with  such  a hallow’d  beam. 
Such  pleasure  with  their  memory  seem’d  blent. 
That,  when  we  look’d  to  heaven,  our  upward 
eyes 

With  no  funeral  sadness  mock’d  the  skies ! 

“ Then,  change  of  scene,  and  time,  and  place 
once  more ; 

And  by  a Gothic  window,  richly  bright. 
Whose  stain’d  armorial  bearings  on  the  floor 
Flung  the  quaint  tracery  of  their  color’d  light, 
We  sate  together  : his  most  noble  head 
Bent  o’er  the  storied  tome  of  other  days. 

And  still  he  commented  on  all  we  read. 

And  taught  me  what  to  love,  and  what  to 
praise, 

Then  Spenser  made  the  summer-day  seem  brief, 
Or  Milton  sounded  with  a loftier  song, 

Then  Cowper  charm’d,  with  lays  of  gentle 
grief. 

Or  rough  old  Dryden  roll’d  the  hour  along. 
Or,  in  his  varied  beauty  dearer  still, 

Sweet  Shakspeare  changed  the  world  around  at 
will ; 

And  we  forgot  the  sunshine  of  that  room 


THE  DREAM. 


41 


To  sit  with  Jacquez  in  the  forest  gloom  ; 

To  look  abroad  with  Juliet’s  anxious  eye 
For  her  boy-lover  ’neath  the  moonlight  sky ; 
Stand  with  Macbeth  upon  the  haunted  heath, 
Or  weep  for  gentle  Desdemona’s  death  ; 

Watch,  on  bright  Cydnus’  wave,  the  glittering 
sheen 

And  silken  sails  of  Egypt’s  wanton  queen ; 

Or  roam  with  Ariel  through  that  island  strange 
Where  spirits,  and  not  men,  were  wont  to  range, 
Still  struggling  on  through  brake,  and  bush,  and 
hollow. 

Hearing  that  sweet  voice  calling — ‘Follow! 
follow  !’ 

“Nor  were  there  wanting  lays  of  other  lands, 
For  these  were  all  familiar  in  his  hands  : 

And  Dante’s  dream  of  horror  work’d  its  spell,-— 
And  Petrarch’s  sadness  on  our  bosom  fell,— 
And  prison’d  Tasso’s — he,  the  coldly-loved. 
The  madly-loving  ! he,  so  deeply  proved 
By  many  a year  of  darkness,  like  the  grave. 

For  her  who  dared  not  plead,  or  would  not  save, 
For  her  who  thought  the  poet’s  suit  brought 
shame. 

Whose  passion  hath  immortalized  her  name  ! 
And  Egmont,  with  his  noble  heart  betray’d, — 
And  Carlos,  haunted  by  a murder’d  shade, — 
And  Faust’s  strange  legend,  sweet  and  wond- 
’rous  wild, 

Stole  many  a tear: — Creation’s  loveliest  child! 
Guileless,  ensnared,  and  tempted  Margaret, 


42 


THE  DREAM. 


Who  could  peruse  thy  fate  with  eyes  unwet? 

“ Then,  through  the  lands  we  read  of,  far 
away. 

The  vision  led  me  all  a summer’s  day  : 

And  we  look’d  round  on  southern  Italy, 

Where  her  dark  head  the  graceful  cypress 
rears 

In  arrowy  straightness  and  soft  majesty. 

And  the  sun’s  face  a mellower  glory  wears  ; 
Bringing,  where’er  his  warm  light  richly  shines, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  gum-distilling  pines  ; 

And  casting  o’er  white  palaces  a glow. 

Like  morning’s  hue  on  mountain-pealts  of  snow. 

**  Those  palaces ! how  fair  their  columns 
rose  ! 

Their  courts,  cool  fountains,  and  wide  porticos ! 
And  ballustraded  roofs,  whose  very  form 
Told  what  an  unknown  stranger  was  the  storm  ! 
In  one  of  these  we  dwelt : its  painted  walls 
A master’s  hand  had  been  employed  to  trace  ; 
Its  long  cool  range  of  shadowy  marble  halls 
Was  fill’d  with  statues  of  most  living  grace  ; 
While  on  its  ceiling  roll’d  the  fiery  car 
Of  the  bright  day-god,  chasing  night  afar, — 

Or  Jove’s  young  favorite,  toward  Olympus’ 
height 

Soar’d  with  the  Eagle’s  dark  majestic  flight, — 
Or  fair  Apollo’s  harp  seem’d  freshly  strung. 

All  heaven  group’d  round  him,  listening  while 
he  sung. 


THE  DREAM.  43 

**  So,  in  the  garden’s  plann’d  and  planted 
bound 

All  wore  the  aspect  of  enchanted  ground  ; 
Thick  orange-groves,  close  arching  over  head, 
Shelter’d  the  paths  our  footsteps  loved  to  tread; 
Or  ilex-trees  shut  out,  with  shadow  sweet, 

Th’  oppressive  splendor  of  the  noontide  heat. 
Through  the  bright  vista,  at  each  varying  turn. 
Gleam’d  the  white  statue,  or  the  graceful  urn  ; 
And,  paved  with  many  a curved  and  twisted  line 
Of  lair  Mosaic’s  strange  and  quaint  design, 
Terrace  on  terrace  rose,  with  steep  so  slight. 
That  scarce  the  pausing  eye  inquired  the  height. 
Till  stretch’d  beneath  in  far  perspective  lay 
The  glittering  city  and  the  deep  blue  bay  ! 
Then  as  we  turn’d  again  to  groves  and  bowers, 
(Rich  with  the  perfume  of  a thousand  flowers,) 
The  sultry  day  w,as  cheated  of  its  force 
By  the  sweet  winding  of  some  streamlet’s 
course  : 

From  sculptured  arch,  and  ornamented  walls. 
Rippled  a thousand  tiny  waterfalls, 

While  here  and  there  an  open  basin  gave 
Rest  to  the  eye  and  freshness  to  the  wave  ; 
Here,  high  above  the  imprison’d  waters,  stood 
Some  imaged  Naiad,  guardian  of  the  flood; 
There,  in  a cool  and  grotto-like  repose. 

The  sea-born  goddess  from  her  shell  arose  ; 

Or  river-god  his  fertile  urn  display’d, 

Gushing  at  distance  through  the  long  arcade,— 
Or  Triton,  lifting  his  wild  conch  on  high, 
Spouted  his  silver  tribute  to  the  sky, 


44 


THE  DREAM. 


Or,  lovelier  still,  (because  to  Nature  true. 

Even  in  the  thought  creative  genius  drew,) 
Some  statue-nymph,  her  bath  of  beauty  o’er. 
Stood  gently  bending  by  the  rocky  shore. 

And,  like  Bologna’s  sweet  and  graceful  dream, 
From  her  moist  hair  wrung  out  the  living  stream. 

“ Bright  was  the  spot ! and  still  we  linger’d  on 
Unwearied,  till  the  summer-day  was  done ; 

Till  fie,  who,  when  the  morning  dew  was  wet, 
In  glory  rose — in  equal  glory  set. 

Fair  sank  his  light,  unclouded  to  the  last. 

And  o’er  that  land  its  glow  of  beauty  cast ; 

And  the  sweet  breath  of  evening  air  went  forth 
To  cool  the  bosom  of  the  fainting  earth ; 

To  bid  the  pale -leaved  olives  lightly  wave 
Upon  their  seaward  slope  (whose  waters  lave 
With  listless  gentleness  the  goMen  strand. 

And  scarcely  leave,  and  scarce  return  to  land  ;) 
Or  with  its  wings  of  freshness,  wandering  round, 
Visit  the  heights  of  many  a villa  crown’d. 
Where  the  still  pine  and  cypress,  side  by  side. 
Look  from  their  distant  hills  on  Ocean’s  tide. 

‘‘The  cypress  and  the  pine  ! Ah,  still  I see 
These  thy  green  children,  lovely  Italy  ! 
Nature’s  dear  favorites,  allow’d  to  wear 
Their  summer  hue  throughout  the  circling  year  ! 
And  oft,  when  wandering  out  at  even-time 
To  watch  the  sunsets  of  a colder  clime. 

As  the  dim  landscape  fades  and  grows  more  faint, 


THE  DREAM.  45 

Fancy’s  sweet  power  a different  gcene  shall 
paint ; 

Enrich  with  deeper  tints  the  colors  given 
To  the  pale  beauty  of  our  English  heaven, — 

Bid  purple  mountains  rise  among  the  clouds, 

Or  deem  their  mass  some  marble  palace 
shrouds, — 

Trace  on  the  red  horizon’s  level  line, 

In  outlines  dark,  the  high  majestic  pine, — 

And  hear,  amid  the  groups  of  English  trees, 

His  sister  cypress  murmuring  to  the  breeze  ! 

“ Never  again  shall  evening,  sweet  and  still, 
Gleam  upon  river,  mountain,  rock,  or  hill, — 
Never  again  shall  fresh  and  budding  spring. 

Or  brighter  summer,  hue  of  beauty  bring. 

In  this,  the  clime  where- ’tis  my  lot  to  dwell, 
But  shall  recall,  as  by  a magic  spell, 

Thy  scenes,  dear  land  of  poetry  and  song ! 

Bid  thy  fair  statues  on  my  memory  throng  ; 
Thy  glorious  pictures  gleam  upon  my  sight 
Like  fleeting  shadows  o’er  the  summer  light , 
And  send  my  haunted  heart  to  dwell  once  more. 
Clad  and  entranced  by  thy  delightful  shore — 
Thy  shore,  where  rolls  that  blue  and  tideless  sea, 
Bright  as  thyself,  thou  radiant  Italy  • 

“And  there  (where  Beauty’s  spirit  sure  had 
birth. 

Though  she  hath  wander’d  since  upon  the 
earth, 

And  scatter’d,  as  she  pass’d,  some  sparks  of 
thought. 


46 


TFE  DREAM. 


Such  as  of  old  her  sons  of  genius  wrought, 

To  show  what  strength  the  immortal  soul  can 
wield 

E’en  here,  in  this  its  dark  and  narrow  field, 

And  fills  us  with  a fond  inquiring  thirst 
To  see  that  land  which  claim’d  her  triumphs 
first) 

Music  was  brought — with  soft  impressive 
power — 

To  fill  with  var5dng  joy  the  varying  hour. 

We  welcomed  it ; for  welcome  still  to  all 
It  comes,  in  cottage,  court,  or  lordly  hall; 

And  in  the  long  bright  summer  evenings,  oft 
We  sate  and  listened  to  some  measure  soft 
From  many, instruments  ; or,  faint  and  lone, 
(Touch’d  by  his  gentle  hand,  or  by  my  own,) 
The  little  lute  its  chorded  notes  would  send 
Tender  and  clear  ; and  with  our  voices  blend 
Cadence  so  true,  that,  when  the  breeze  swept  by. 
OneYningled  echo  floated  on  its  sigh! 

“ And  still  as  day  by  day  we  saw  depart, 

I was  the  living  idol  of  his  heart: 

How  to  make  joy  a portion  of  the  air 
That  breathed  around  me,  seem’d  his  only  care. 
For  me  the  harp  was  strung,  the  page  was  turiro ; 
For  me  the  m.orning  rose,  the  sunset  burn’d  ; 
For  me  the  Spring  put  out  her  verdant  suit ; 

For  me  the  Summer  flower,  the  Autumn  fruit  ; 
The  very  world  seem’d  mine,  so  mighty  strove 
For  my  contentment,  that  enduring  love. 


THE  DREAM. 


47 


I see  him  still,  dear  mother  ! Still  I hear 
That  voice  so  deeply  soft,  so  strangely  clear ; 
Still  in  the  air  wild  wandering  echoes  float, 

And  bring  my  dream’s  sweet  music  note  for 
note  ! 

Oh  ! shall  those  sounds  no  more  my  fancy  bless, 
Which  fill  my  heart  and  on  my  memory  press  ? 
Shall  I no  more  those  sunset  clouds  behold. 
Floating  like  bright  transparent  thrones  of  gold  ? 
The  skies,  the  seas,  the  hills  of  glorious  blue  ; 
The  glades  and  groves,  with  glories  shining 
through ; 

The  bands  of  red  and  purple,  richly  seen 
Athwart  the  sky  of  pale,  faint,  gem-like  green  ; 
When  the  breeze  slept,  the  earth  lay  hush’d  and 
still, 

When  the  low  sun  sank  slanting  from  the  hill, 
And  slow  and  amber-tinged  the  moon  uprose. 
To  watch  his  farewell  hour  in  glory  close? 

Is  all  that  radiance  past — gone  by  forever — 

And  must  there  in  its  stead  forever  be 
The  gray,  sad  sky,  the  cold  and  clouded  river. 
And  dismal  dwellings  by  the  wintry  sea? 

E’er  half  a summer,  altering  day  by  day. 

In  fickle  brightness,  here,  hath  pass’d  away  ! 
And  was  that  form  (whose  love  might  still  sustain^ 
Naught  but  a vapor  of  the  dreaming  brain? — 
Would  I had  slept  for  ever  !” 

Sad  she  sigh’d ; 

To  whom  the  mournful  mother  thus  replied  : — 

‘‘Upbraid  not  Heaven,  whose  wisdom  thus 
would  rule 


48  THE  DREAM. 

A world  whose  changes  are  the  soul’s  best 
school : 

All  dream  like  thee,  and  ’tis  for  Mercy’s  sake 
That  those  who  dream  the  wildest,  soonest 
wake ; 

All  deem  Perfection’s  system  would  be  found 
In  giving  earthly  sense  no  stint  or  bound  ; 

All  look  for  happiness  beneath  the  sun, 

And  each  expects  what  God  hath  given  to  none> 

“ In  what  an  idle  luxury  of  joy 
Would  thy  spoil’d  heart  its  useless  hours  em- 
ploy ! 

In  what  a selfish  loneliness  of  light 
Wouldst  thou  exist,  read  we  thy  dream  aright  ! 
How  hath  thy  sleeping  spirit  broke  the  chain 
Which  knits  thy  human  lot  to  other’s  pain, 

And  made  this  world  of  peopled  millions  seem 
For  thee  and  for  the  lover  of  thy  dream  ! 

**  Think  not  my  heart  with  cold  indifference 
heard 

The  various  feelings  which  in  thine  have  stirr’d, 
Or  that  its  sad  and  weary  currents  know 
Faint  sympathy,  except  for  human  woe  : 

Well  have  the  dormant  echoes  of  my  breast 
Answer’d  the  joys  thy  gentle  voice  express’d  ; 
Conjured  a vision  of  the  stately  mate 
With  whom  the  flattering  vision  link’d  thy  fate; 
And  follow’d  thee  through  grove  and  woodland 
wild. 


THE  DREAM. 

Where  so  much  natural  beauty  round  thee 
smiled. 


“ What  man  so  worldly-wise,  or  chill’d  by  age, 
'Who,  bending  o’er  the  faint  descriptive  page, 
Recalls  not  such  a scene  in  some  far  nook — 
(Whereon  his  eyes,  perchance,  no  more  shall 
look  ;) 

Some  hawthorn  copse,  some  gnarl’d  majestic 
tree. 

The  favorite  play-place  of  his  infancy  ? 

Who  has  not  felt  for  Cowper’s  sweet  lament, 
When  twelve  years’  course  their  cruel  change 
had  sent ; 

When  his  fell’d  poplars  gave  no  further  shade, 
And  low  on  earth  the  blackbird’s  nest  was  laid  ; 
When  in  a desert  sunshine,  bare  and  blank. 

Lay  the  green  field  and  river’s  mossy  bank  ; 
And  melody  of  bird  or  branch  no  more 
Rose  with  the  breeze  that  swept  along  the  shore  ? 


“Few  are  the  hearts,  (nor  theirs  of  kindliest 
frame,) 

On  whom  fair  Nature  holds  not  such  a claim  ; 
And  oft,  in  after-life,  some  simple  thing — 

A bank  of  primroses  in  early  spring — 

The  tender  scent  which  hidden  violets  yield— 
The  sight  of  cowslips  in  a meadow-field — 

Or  young  laburnum’s  pendant  yellow  chain — • 
May  bring  the  favorite  play-place  back  again 
4 


50  THE  DREAM. 

Our  youthful  mates  are  gone ; some  dead,  some 
changed, 

With  whom  that  pleasant  spot  was  gladly  ranged  ; 
Ourselves,  perhaps,  more  alter’d  e’en  than 
they — 

But  there  still  blooms  the  blossom-showering 
May  ; 

There  still  along  the  hedge-row’s  verdant  line 
The  linnet  sings,  the  thorny  brambles  twine  ; 
Still  in  the  copse  a troop  of  merry  elves 
Shout — the  gay  image  of  our  former  selves  ; 
And  still,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  eager  hands 
Some  rosy  urchin  high  on  tiptoe  stands, 

And  plucks  the  ripest  berries  from  the  bough— 
Which  tempts  a different  generation  now  ! 

“ What  though  no  real  beauty  haunt  that  spot 
By  graver  minds  beheld  and  noticed  not  ? 

Can  we  forget  that  once  to  our  young  eyes 
It  wore  the  aspect  of  a Paradise  ? 

No  ; still  around  its  hallow’d  precinct  lives 
The  fond  mysterious  charm  that  memory  gives  ; 
The  man  recalls  the  feelings  of  the  boy, 

And  clothes  the  meanest  flower  with  freshness 
and  with  joy. 

“ Nor  think  by  elder  hearts  forgotten  quite 
Love’s  whisper’d  words;  youth’s  sweet  and 
strange  delight  ; 

They  live — though  after-memories  fade  away  ; 
They  live  to  cheer  life’s  slow  declining  day  ; 


THE  DREAM. 


51 


Haunting  the  widow  by  her  lonely  hearth, 

As,  meekly  smiling  at  her  children’s  mirth, 

She  spreads  her  fair  thin  hands  toward  the  fire, 
To  seek  the  warmth  their  slacken’d  veins  re- 
quire : 

Or  gladdening  her  to  whom  Heaven’s  mercy 
spares 

Her  old  companion  with  his  silver  hairs  ; 

And  while  he  dozes— changed,  and  dull,  and 
weak — 

And  his  hush’d  grandchild  signs,  but  dares  not 
speak, — 

Bidding  her  watch,  with  many  a tender  smile. 
The  wither’d  form  which  slumbers  all  the  while 

“Yes!  sweet  the  voice  of  those  we  loved! 
the  lone 

Which  cheers  our  memory  as  we  sit  alone, 

And  will  not  leave  us  ; the  o’er-mastering  force. 
Whose  under-current’s  strange  and  hidden 
course 

Bids  some  chance  word,  by  colder  hearts  forgot, 
Return — and  still  return — yet  w'eary  not 
The  ear  which  wooes  its  sameness  ! How, 
when  Death 

Hath  stopp,d  with  ruthless  hands  some  precious 
breiiih, 

The  memory  of  the  voice  he  hath  destroy’d 
laves  in  our  souls,  as  in  an  aching  void  ! 

How,  throimh  the  varying  fate  of  after-years, 
When  stifled  sorrow  weeps  but  casual  tears, 

If  some  stray  tone  seem  like  the  voice  we  know 


52 


THE  EREAM. 


The  heart  leaps  up  with  answer  faint  and  true  ! 
Greeting  again  that  sweet,  long-vanish’d  sound, 
As,  in  earth’s  nooks  of  ever-haunted  ground, 
Strange  accident,  or  man’s  capricious  will. 
Wakes  the  lone  echoes,  and  they  answer  still  ! 

“ Oh  ! what  a shallow  fable  cheats  the  age, 
When  the  lost  lover,  on  the  motley  stage, 
Wrapp’d  from  his  mistress  in  some  quaint  dis- 
guise, 

Deceives  her  ears,  because  he  cheats  her  eyes  ! 
Rather,  if  all  could  fade  which  charm’d  us 
first, — 

If,  by  some  magic  stroke,  some  plague-spot 
cursed. 

All  outward  semblance  left  the  form  beloved 
A wreck  unrecognised,  and  half  disproved. 

At  the  dear  sound  of  that  familiar  voice 
Her  waken’d  heart  should  tremble  and  rejoice, 
Leap  to  its  faith  at  once, — and  spurn  the  doubt 
Which,  on  such  showing,  barr’d  his  welcome 
out  I 

“ And  if  even  words  are  sweet,  what,  what  is 
song. 

When  lips  we  love,  the  melody  prolong? 

How  thrills  the  soul,  and  vibrates  to  that  lay, 
Swells  with  the  glorious  sound,  or  dies  away  ! 
How,  to  the  cadence  of  the  simplest  words 
That  ever  hung  upon  the  wild  harp’s  chords. 
The  breathless  heart  lies  listening  ; as  it  felt 
All  life  within  it  on  that  music  dwelt. 


THE  DREAM. 


53 


And  huffh’d  the  beating  pulse’s  rapid  power 
By  its  own  will,  for  that  enchanted  hour  ! 

“ Ay  ! then  to  those  who  love  the  science  well, 
Music  becomes  a passion  and  a spell ! 

Music,  the  tender  child  of  rudest  times, 

The  gentle  native  of  all  lands  and  climes  ; 

Who  hymns  alike  man’s  cradle  and  his  grave, 
Lulls  the  low  cot,  or  peals  along  the  nave  ; 
Cheers  the  poor  peasant,  who  his  native  hills 
With  wild  Tyrolean  echoes  sweetly  fills  ; 
Inspires  the  Indian’s  low  monotonous  chant, 
Weaves  skilful  melodies,  for  Luxury’s  haunt; 
And  still,  through  all  these  changes,  lives  the 
same. 

Spirit  without  a home,  without  a name, 

Coming,  where  all  is  discord,  strife,  and  sin, 

To  prove  some  innate  harmony  within 

Our  listening  souls  ; and  lull  the  heaving  breast 

Vv^ith  the  dim  vision  of  an  unknown  rest ! 


“ But,  dearest  child,  though  many  a joy  be 
given 

By  the  pure  bounty  of  all-pitying  Heaven, — 
Though  sweet  emotions  in  our  hearts  have  birth. 
As  flowers  are  spangled  on  the  lap  of  earth, — 
Though,  with  the  flag  of  Hope  and  Triumph 
hung 

High  o’er  our  heads,  we  start  when  life  is  young, 
And  onward  cheer’d,  by  sense,  and  sight,  and 
sound. 


THE  DREAM. 


5i 

Like  a launch’d  bark,  we  enter  with  a bound  , 
Yet  must  the  dark  cloud  lour,  the  tempest  fall, 
And  the  same  chance  of  shipwreck  waits  for  all. 
Happy  are  they  who  leave  the  harboring  land 
Not  for  a summer  voyage,  hand  in  hand, 
Pleasure’s  light  slaves  : but  with  an  earnest  eye 
Kxploring  all  the  future  of  their  sky  ; 

That  so,  when  Life’s  career  at  length  is  past, 
To  the  right  haven  they  may  steer  at  last, 

And  sale  from  hidden  rock,  or  open  gale. 

Lay  by  the  oar,  and  furl  the  slacken’d  sail, — 
I'o  anchor  deeply  on  that  tranquil  shore 
Where  vexing  storms  can  never  reach  them 
more ! 

“ Wouidst  thou  be  singled  out  by  partial 
Heaven 

The  ONE  to  whom  a cloudless  lot  is  given  ? 

Look  round  tile  world,  and  see  what  fate  is  there, 
Wliich  justice  can  pronounce  exempt  from  care  : 
I’hough  bright  they  bloom  toempty  out  wai^*  show 
There  lurks  in  each  some  canker- worm  or  woe; 
Still  by  some  thorn  the  onward  step  is  cross’d, 
Nor  least  repining  those  who  ’re  envied  most  : 
’Pile  poor  have  struggling,  tjaii,  and  wounded 
pride, 

Which  seeks,  and  seeks  in  vain,  its  rags  to  hide  ; 
Tlie  rich,  cold  jealousies,  intrigues,  and  strife, 
And  heart-sick  discontent  which  poisons  lile  ; 
The  loved  are  parted  by  the  hand  of  Death, 
The  hated  live  to  curse  each  other’s  breath  : 
The  wealthy  noble  mourns  the  want  of  heirs  ; 


//  n-  --4:  "6'^r^ 

V ,.:  ■ • > ( ^ i> 


. \r 


THE  DFvEAM. 

While,  each  the  object  of  incessant  prayers, 
Gay,  hardy  sons,  around  the  widow’s  board, 
With  careless  smiles  devour  her  scanty  hoard  ; 
And  hear  no  sorrow  in  her  stifled  sigh, 

And  see  no  terror  in  her  anxious  eye, — 

While  she  in  fancy  antedates  the  time 
When,  scatter’d  far  and  wide  in  many  a clime, 
These  heirs  to  nothing  but  their  Father’s  name 
Must  earn  their  bread,  and  struggle  hard  for 
fame  ; 

To  sultry  India  sends  her  fair-hair’d  boy — 

Sees  the  dead  desk  another’s  youth  employ — 
And  parts  with  one  to  sail  the  uncertain  main. 
Never  perhaps  on  earth  to  meet  again  ! 

“ Nor  e’en  does  Love,  whose  fresh  and  radi- 
ant beam 

Gave  added  brightness  to  thy  v/andering  dream. 
Preserve  from  bitter  touch  of  ills  unknown, 

But  rather  brings  strange  sorrows  of  its  own. 
Various  the  ways  in  which  our  souls  are  tried  ; 
Love  often  fails  where  most  our  faith  relied  ; 
Some  wayward  heart  may  win,  without  a 
thought, 

^’hat  which  thine  own  by  sacrifice  hath  bought ; 
May  carelessly  aside  the  treasure  cast. 

And  yet  be  madly  worshipp’d  to  the  last ; 
Whilst  thou,  forsaken,  grieving,  left  to  pine. 
Vainly  may’st  claim  his  plighted  faith  as  thine  ; 
Vainly  his  idol’s  charms  with  thine  compare. 
And  know  thyself  as  young,  as  bright,  as  fair ; 
Vainly  in  jealous  pangs  consume  thy  day, 


56 


THE  DREAM. 


x\nd  waste  the  sleepless  night  in  tears  away  ; 
Vainly  with  forced  indulgence  strive  to  smile 
In  the  cold  world,  heart-broken  all  the  while, 
Or  from  its  glittering  and  unquiet  crowd, 

Thy  brain  on  fire,  thy  spirit  crush’d  and  bow’d, 
Creep  home  unnoticed,  there  to  weep  alone. 
Mock’d  by  a claim  which  gives  thee  not  thine 
own. 

Which  leaves  thee  bound  through  all  thy  blight- 
ed youth 

To  him  whose  perjured  soul  hath  broke  its  truth ; 
While  the  just  world,  beholding  thee  bereft. 
Scorns — not  his  sin — but  thee,  for  being  left ! 

“ Ah  ! never  to  the  Sensualist  appeal. 

Nor  deem  his  frozen  bosom  aught  can  feel. 
Affection,  root  of  all  fond  memories. 

Which  bids  what  once  hath  charm’d  for  ever 
please, 

He  knows  not : all  thy  beauty  could  inspire 
Was  but  a sentiment  of  low  desire  : 

If  from  thy  cheek  the  rose’s  hue  be  gone, 

How  should  love  stay  which  loved  for  that  alone  ? 
Or,  if  thy  youthful  face  be  still  as  bright 
As  when  it  first  entranced  his  eager  sight. 

Thou  art  the  same  ; there  is  thy  fault,  thy  crime, 
Which  fades  the  charms  yet  spared  by  rapid 
Time, 

Talk  to  him  of  the  happy  days  gone  by. 
Conceal’d  aversion  chills  his  shrinking  eye; 
While  ip  thine  agony  thou  still  dost  rave, 
Irapatlont  wishes  doom  thee  to  the  grave  ; 


THE  DHEAM. 

And  if  his  cold  and  selfish  thought  had  power 
T’  accelerate  the  fatal  final  hour, 

The  silent  murder  were  already  done, 

And  th}''  white  tomb  would  glitter  in  the  sun. 
What  wouldst  thou  hold  by  ? What  is  it  to  him 
That  for  his  sake  thy  weeping  eyes  are  dim  ? 
His  paird  and  weary  senses  rove  apart, 

And  for  his  heart  — thou  never  hadst  his  heart. 

“ True,  there  is  better  love,  whose  balance 
just 

Mingles  Soul’s  instinct  with  our  grosser  dust. 
And  leaves  affection,  strengthening  day  by  day, 
Firm  to  assault,  impervious  to  decay. 

To  such,  a star  of  hope  thy  love  shall  be 
Whose  steadfast  light  he  still  desires  to  see  ; 
And  age  shall  vainly  mar  thy  beauty’s  grace, 
Or  wantons  plot  to  steal  into  thy  place. 

Or  wild  Temptation,  from  her  hidden  bowers. 
Fling  o’er  his  path  her  bright  but  poisonous 
flowers, — 

Dearer  to  him  than  all  who  thus  beguile, 

Thy  faded  face,  and  thy  familiar  smile  ; 

Thy  glance,  w'hich  still  hath  welcomed  him  for 
years. 

Now  bright  with  gladness,  and  now  dim  wdth 
tears  ! 

And  if  (for  w^e  are  weak)  division  come 
On  w'ings  of  discord  to  that  happy  home, 

Soon  is  the  painful  hour  of  anger  past. 

Too  sharp,  too  strange  an  agony  to  last ; 

And,  like  some  river’s  bright  abundant  tide 


THE  DREAM. 


Which  art  or  accident  hath  forced  aside, 

The  well-springs  of  affection,  gushing  o’er, 
Back  to  their  natural  channels  flow  once  more, 

“ Ah  ! sad  it  is  when  one  thus  link’d  departs  ! 
When  Death,  that  mighty  severer  of  true  hearts, 
Sweeps  through  the  halls  so  lately  loud  in  mirth, 
And  leaves  pale  Sorrow  weeping  by  the  hearth  ! 
Bitter  it  is  tq  wander  there  alone, 

To  fill  the  vacant  place,  the  empty  chair, 
With  a dear  vision  of  the  loved  one  gone, 

And  start  to  see  it  vaguely  melt  in  air  ! 

Bitter  to  find  all  joy  that  once  hath  been 
Double  its  value  when  ’tis  pass’d  away, — 

To  feel  the  blow  which  Time  should  make  less 
keen 

Increase  its  burden  each  successive  day, — " 
To  need  good  counsel,  and  to  miss  the  voice, 
'fhe  ever  trusted,  and  the  ever  true. 

Whose  tones  were  wont  to  cheer  our  faltering 
choice, 

And  show  what  holy  Virtue  bade  us  do, — 

To  bear  deep  wrong  and  bow  the  widow’d  head 
In  helpless  anguish,  no  one  to  defend  ; 

Or  worse, — in  lieu  of  him,  the  kindly  dead. 
Claim  faint  assistance  from  some  lukewarm 
friend — 

Yet  scarce  perceive  the  extent  of  all  our  loss 
Till  the  fresh  tomb  be  green  with  gathering 


>:  ill 


THE  DREAM. 


59 


Send  iti  red  glory  through  the  tranquil  skies, 
Each  bringing  with  it  deeper  cause  to  grieve  ! 

“ This  is  a destiny  which  may  be  thine — 
The  common  grief:  God  will’d  it  should  be 
mine  : 

Short  was  the  course  our  happy  love  had  run, 
And  hard  it  was  to  say  ‘ Thy  will  be  done  !’ 

“Yet  those  whom  man,  not  God,  hath  part- 
ed, know 

A heavier  pang,  a more  enduring  woe  ; 

No  softening  memory  mingles  with  their  tears, 
Still  the  wound  rankles  on  through  dreary 
years. 

Still  the  heart  feels,  in  bitterest  hours  of  blame. 
It  dares  not  curse  the  long-familiar  name ; 

Still,  vainly  free,  throagh  many  a cheerless  day. 
From  weaker  ties  turn  helplessly  away, 

Sick  for  the  smiles  that  bless’d  its  home  of  yore, 
"I'he  natural  joys  of  life  that  come  no  more  ; 
And,  all  bewilder’d  by  the  abyss,  whose  gloom 
Dark  and  impassable  as  is  the  tomb. 

Lies  stretch’d  between  the  future  and  the 
past, — 

Sinks  into  deep  and  cold  despair  at  last. 

“ Heaven  give  thee  poverty,  disease,  or  death, 
Each  varied  ill  that  waits  on  human  breath. 
Rather  than  bid  thee  linger  out  thy  life 
In  the  long  toil  of  such  unnatural  strife. 

To  w'ander  through  the  wmrld  unreconciled, 


Heart  weary  as  a spirit-broken  child, 

And  think  it  were  an  hour  of  bliss  like  heaven 
If  thou  could’ St  die — forgiving  and  forgiven, - 
Or  with  a feverish  hope  of  anguish  born, 
(rskerving  thy  mind  to  feel  indignant  scorn 
Of  all  the  cruel  foes  who  ’twixt  ye  stand, 
Holding  thy  heartstrings  with  a reckless  hand,; 
Steal  to  his  presence,  now  unseen  so  long, 

And  claim  his  mercy  who  hath  dealt  the  wrong  ! 
Into  the  aching  depths  of  thy  poor  heart 
Dive,  as  it  were,  even  to  the  roots  of  pain. 
And  wrench  up  thoughts  that  tear  thy  soul  apart, 
And  burn  like  fire  through  thy  bewilder’d 
brain. 

Clothe  them  in  passionate  words  of  wild  appeal 
To  teach  thy  fello  w-creature  how  to  feel, — 
Pray,  weep,  exhaust  thyself  in  maddening 
tears, — 

Recall  the  hopes,  the  influences  of  years, — 
Kneel,  dash  thyself  upon  the  senseless  ground. 
Writhe  as  the  worm  writhes  with  dividing 
wound, — 

Invoke  the  heaven  that  knows  thy  sorrow’s  truth, 
By  all  the  softening  memories  of  youth — 

By  every  hope  that  cheer’d  thine  earlier  day — 
By  every  tear  that  washes  wrath  away — 

By  every  old  remembrance  long  gone  by — 

By  every  pang  that  makes  thee  yearn  to  die ; 
And  learn  at  length  how  deep  and  stern  a blow 
Near  hands  can  strike,  and  yet  no  pity  show  • 

Oh  ! weak  to  suffer,  savage  to  inflict. 

Is  man’s  commingling  nature;  hear  him  now 


a 


THE  DREAM. 


61 


Some  transient  trial  of  his  life  depict, 

Hear  him  in  holy  rites  a suppliant  bow  ; 

See  him  shrink  back  from  sickness  and  from 
pain,  H 

And  in  his  sorrow  to  his  God  complain  ; 

‘ Remit  my  trespass,' spare  my  sin,’  he  cries, 

‘ All-merciful,  Almighty,  and  All-wise  ; 
Quench  this  affliction’s  bitter  whelming  tide. 
Draw  out  thy  barbed  arrow  from  my  side 
— And  rises  from  that  mockery  of  prayer 
To  hale  some  brother-debtor  to  despair ! 

**  May  this  be  spared  thee  ! Yet  be  sure,  my 
child, 

(Howe’er  that  dream  thy  fancy  hath  beguiled,) 
Some  sorrow  lurks  to  cloud  thy  future  fate  ; 

Thy  share  of  tears, — come  early  or  come  late, — 
Must  still  be  shed  ; and  ’twere  as  vain  a thing 
To  ask  of  Nature  one  perpetual  spring 
As  to  evade  those  sad  autumnal  hours. 

Or  deem  thy  path  of  life  should  bloom,  all 
flowers.” 

She  ceased:  and  that  fair  maiden  heard  the 
truth 

With  the  fond  passionate  despair  of  youth. 
Which,  new  to  suffering,  gives  its  sorrow  vent 
In  outward  signs  and  bursts  of  wild  lament : — 

“ If  this  be  so,  then,  mother,  let  me  die 
Ere  yet  the  glow  hath  faded  from  my  sky  I 
Let  me  die  young  ; before  the  holy  trust 


‘^5\n 


THE  DREAIVI. 

In  human  kindness  crumbles  into  dust ; 

Before  I suffer  what  I have  not  earn’d, 

Or  see  by  treachery  my  truth  return’d ; 

Before  the  love  I live  for,  fades  away  ; 

Before  the  hopes  I cherish’d  most,  decay  ; 
Before  the  withering  touch  of  fearful  change 
Makes  some  familiar  face  look  cold  and  strange, 
Or  some  dear  heart,  close  knitted  to  my  own, 
By  perishing,  hath  left  me  more  alone  ! 

Though  death  be  bitter,  I can  brave  its  pain 
Better  than  all  which  threats  if  I remain  : 

While  my  souk  freed  from  ev’ry  chance  of  ill, 
Soars  to  that  God  whose  high  mysterious  will 
Sent  me,  foredoom’d  to  grief,  with  wandering 
feet, 

To  group  my  way  through  all  this  fair  deceit !” 

Her  parent  heard  the  words  with  grieved 
amaze, 

And  thus  return’d,  with  calm  reproving  gaze  : — 

“ Blaspheme  not  Heaven  with  rash  impatient 
speech. 

Nor  deem,  at  thine  own  hour,  its  rest  to  reach. 
Unhappy  child  ! The  full  appointed  time 
Is  His  to  choose  ; and  when  the  sullen  chime, 
And  deep-toned  striking  of  the  funeral  bell, 

Tl*y  fate  to  earthly  ears  shall  sadly  tell, 

Oh  ! may  (he  death  thou  talk’st  of  as  a boon, 
Find  thee  prepared, — nor  come  even  then  too 
soon ! 


O 


if , 41 


iCi 


'*  True,  ere  thou  meet’st  that  long  and  dream- 
less sleep, 

Thy  heart  must  ache — ihy  weary  eyes  must 
weep : 

It  is  our  human  lot ! The  fariest  child 
That  e’er  on  loving  mother  brightly  smiled, — 
Most  watch’d,  most  tended — ere  his  eyelids 
close. 

Hath  had  his  little  share  of  infant  woes, 

And  dies  familiar  with  the  sense  of  grief. 
Though  for  all  else  his  life  hath  been  too  brief! 
But  shall  we  therefore,  murmuring  against  God, 
Question  the  justice  of  his  chastening  rod, 

And  look  to  earthly  joys  as  though  they  were 
The  prize  immortal  souls  were  given  to  share  ? 
“ Oh  ! were  such  joys  and  this  vain  world  alone 
The  term  of  human  hope — where,  where 
would  be 

The  victims  of  some  tyranny  unknown. 

Who  sank,  still  conscious  that  the  mind  was 
free  ? 

They  that  have  lain  in  dungeons  years  on  years. 
No  voice  to  cheer  their  darkness, — they  whose 
pain 

Of  horrid  torture  wrung  forth  blood  with  tears. 
Murder’d,  perhaps,  for  some  rapacions  gain, — 
They  w'ho  have  stood,  bound  to  the  martyr’s 
stake, 

While  the  sharp  flames  ate  through  the  blister- 
ing skin, — 

They  that  have  bled  for  some  high  cause’s 
sake, — 


'O  I '' 

i: 


64 


THE  DREAM. 


They  that  have  perish’d  for  another’s  sin, 
And  from  the  scaffold  to  that  God  appeal’d 
To  whom  the  naked  heart  is  all  reveal’d, 
Against  the  shortening  of  life’s  narrow  span 
By  the  blind  rage  and  false  decree  of  man  ? 

And  where  obscurer  sufferers — they  who  slept 
And  left  no  name  on  history’s  random  page, 
But  in  God’s  book  of  reckoning,  sternly  kept, 
Live  on  from  year  to  year,  from  age  to  age  ? 
The  poor — the  laboring  poor  1 whose  weary 
lives. 

Through  many  a freezing  night  and  hungry 
day, 

Are  a reproach  to  him  who  only  strives 
In  luxury  to  waste  his  hours  away, — 

The  patient  poor ! whose  insufficient  means 
Make  sickness  dreadful,  yet  by  whose  low  bed 
Oft  in  meek  prayers  some  fellow  sufferer  leans, 
And  trusts  in  Heaven  while  destitute  of  bread  j 
The  workhouse  orphan,  left  without  a friend  ; 

Or  weak  forsaken  child  of  want  and  sin. 
Whose  helpless  life  begins,  as  it  must  end. 

By  men  disputing  who  shall  take  it  in  ; 

Who  clothe,  who  aid  that  spark  to  linger  here, 
Which  for  mysterious  purpose  God  hath 
given 

To  struggle  through  a day  of  toil  and  fear. 

And  meet  him — with  the  proudest — up  in 
heaven  ! 

These  were,  and  are  not:'— shall  we  therefore 
deem 

That  they  have  vanish’d  like  a sleeper’s  dream  I 


THE  DREAM. 


65 


Or  that  one  half  creation  is  to  know 
Luxurious  joy,  and  others  only  woe, 

And  so  go  down  into  the  common  tomb, 

With  none  to  question  their  unequal  doom  ? 
Shall  we  give  credit  to  a thought  so  fond  ? 

Ah  ! no — the  world  beyond — the  world  beyond  ! 
There,  shall  the  desolate  heart  regain  its  own ! 
There,  the  oppress’d  shall  stand  before  God’s 
throne  ! 

There,  when  the  tangled  web  is  all  explain’d. 
Wrong  suffer’d,  pain  inflicted,  grief  disdain’d, 
Man’s  proud  mistaken  judgments  and  false  scorn 
Shall  melt  like  mists  before  uprising  morn. 

And  holy  truth  stand  forth  serenely  bright, 

In  the  rich  flood  of  God’s  eternal  light! 

“ Then  shall  the  Lazarus  of  the  earth  have 
rest — 

The  rich  man  judgment— and  the  grieving 
breast 

Deep  peace  for  ever.  Therefore  look  thou  not 
So  much  to  what  on  earth  shall  be  thy  lot. 

As  to  thy  fate  hereafter, — to  that  day 
When  like  a scroll  this  world  shall  pass  away. 
And  what  thou  here  hast  done,  or  here  enjoy’d. 
Import  but  to  thy  soul  : — all  else  destroy’d  ! 

“ And  have  thou  faith  in  human  nature  still ; 
Though  evil  thoughts  abound,  and  acts  of  ill ; 
Though  innocence  in  sorrow  shrouded  be. 

And  tyranny’s  strong  step  walk  bold  and  free  I 
For  many  a kindly  generous  deed  is  done 


*1 


f' 


THE  DREAM. 

Which  leaves  no  record  underneath  the  sun — 
Self-abnegating  love  and  humble  worth, 

Which  yet  shall  consecrate  our  sinful  earth  ! 

He  that  deals  blame,  and  yet  forgets  to  praise. 
Who  sets  brief  storms  against  long  summer-days. 
Hath  a sick  judgment.  Shall  the  usual  joy 
Be  all  forgot,  and  nought  our  minds  employ, 
Through  the  long  course  of  ever-varing  years, 
But  temporary  pain  and  casual  tears  ? 

And  shall  we  all  condemn,  and  all  distrust, 
Because  some  men  are  false  and  some  unjust  ? 
Forbid  it  heaven!  far  better  ’twere  to  be 
Dupe  of  the  fond  impossibility 
Of  light  and  radiance  which  thy  vision  gave, 
Than  thus  to  live  Suspicion's  bitter  slave. 

Give  credit  to  thy  mortal  brother’s  heart 
For  all  the  good  than  in  thine  own  hath  part. 
And,  cheerfully  as  honest  prudence  may, 

Trust  to  his  proffer’d  hand’s  protecting  stay  : 
For  God,  who  made  this  teeming  earth  so  full. 
And  made  the  proud  dependent  on  the  dull — 
The  strong  upon  the  weak — thereby  would  show 
One  common  bond  should  link  us  all  below. 

“ And  visit  not  with  a severer  scorn 
Faults,  whose  deep  root  was  with  our  nature 
born. 

From  which — though  others  woo’d  thee  just  as 
vain — 

Thou,  differently  tempted,  didst  abstain  : 

Nor  dwell  on  points  of  creed — assuming  right 
To  judge  how  holy  in  his  Maker’s  sight 


THE  DREAM. 


67 


Is  he  who  at  a different  altar  bends  ; 

For  hence  have  ris’n  the  bitterest  feuds  of 
friends, 

The  wildest  wars  of  nations  ; age  on  age 
Hath  desecrated  thus  dark  History’s  page  ; 

And  still  (though  not,  perhaps,  with  fire  and 
sword) 

Reckless  we  raise  ‘ The  banner  of  the  Lord  I* 
Mock  Heaven’s  calm  mercy  by  the  plea  we 
make. 

That  all  is  done  for  gentle  Jesus’  sake, — 
Disturb  the  consciences  of  weaker  men, — 
Employ  the  scholar’s  art,  the  bigot’s  pen, — 

And  rouse  the  wrathful  and  the  spirit-proud 
To  language  bitter,  vehement,  and  loud, 

Whose  unconvincing  fury  wounds  the  ear. 

And  seeking,  with  some  sharp  and  haughty 
sneer, 

How  best  the  opposing  party  may  be  stung, — 
Pleads  for  religion  with  a devil’s  tongue  ! 

**  Oh!  shall  God  tolerate  the  meanest  prayer 
That  humbly  seeks  his  high  supernal  throne, 
And  man — presumptuous  Pharisee — declare 
His  fellow’s  voice  less  welcome  than  his  own  ? 
Is  it  a theme  for  wild  and  warring  words 
How  best  to  satisfy  the  Maker’s  claim  ? 

In  rendering  to  the  Lord  what  is  the  Lord’s, 
Doth  not  the  thought  of  violence  bring  shame  ? 
Think  ye  he  gave  the  branching  forest  tree 
To  furnish  fagots  for  the  funeral  pyre  ? 

Or  bid  his  sunrise  light  the  world,  to  see 


THE  DREAM. 


Pale  tortured  victims  perish  there  by  fire  ? 

No  ! oft  on  earth,  dragg’d  forth  m pain  to  die, 
The  heretic  may  groan — the  martyr  bleed — 
But,  set  before  his  Sovereign  Judge  on  high, 
’Tis  man’s  offe?ice  condemns  him,  not  his 
creed. 

His  first  commandment  was  to  worship  Him  ; 

His  next — to  love  the  creature  He  hath  made  : 
How  blind  the  eyes  of  those  who  read,  how  dim, 
Who  see  not  here  religious  fury  stay’d  ! 

From  the  proud  AaZ/-fulfilment  of  his  law 
Sternly  he  turns  away  his  awful  face. 

Nor  will  contentment  from  their  service  draw, 
Who  fail  to  grant  a fellow-creature  grace. 
Haply  the  days  of  martyrdom  are  past. 

But  still  we  see,  without  a visible  end. 

The  bitter  warfare  of  opinion  last, 

Tho’  God  hath  will’d  that  man  should  be 
man’s  friend. 

Therefore  do  thou,  e’er  yet  thy  youthful  heart 
Be  tinged  with  their  revilings,  safe  retreat, 
And  in  those  fierce  discussions  bear  no  part, — 
Odius  in  all — in  woman  most  unmeet, — 

But  in  the  still  dark  night,  and  rising  day. 
Humbly  collect  thy  thoughts,  and  humbly  pray. 

“ And  be  not  thou  cast  down,  because  thy  lot 
The  glory  of  thy  dream  resembleth  not. 

Not  for  herself  was  woman  first  create. 

Nor  yet  to  be  man’s  idol,  but  his  mate. 

Still  from  his  birth  his  cradled  bed  she  tends. 
The  first,  the  last,  the  faithfulest  of  friends  ; 


THE  DREAM. 


69 


Still  finds  her  place  in  sickness  or  in  woe, 
Humble  to  comfort,  strong  to  undergo  ; 

Still  in  the  depth  of  weeping  sorrow  tries 
To  watch  his  death-bed  with  her  patient  eyes! 
And  doubt  not  thou, — (although  at  times  de- 
ceived, 

Outraged,  insulted,  slander’d,  crush’d,  and 
grieved  ; 

Too  often  made  a victim  or  a toy, 

With  years  of  sorrow  for  an  hour  of  joy  ; 

Too  oft  forgot  midst  Pleasure’s  circling  wiles, 
Or  only  valued  for  her  rosy  smiles, — ) 

That  in  the  frank  and  generous  heart  of  man, 
The  place  she  holds  accords  with  Heaven’s  high 
plan ; 

Still,  if  from  wandering  sin  reclaim’d  at  all, 

He  sees  in  her  the  angel  of  recall; 

Still,  in  the  sad  and  serious  hours  of  life. 

Turns  to  the  sister,  mother,  friend  or  wife  ; 
Views  with  a heart  of  fond  and  trustful  pride 
His  faithful  partner  by  his  calm  fireside  ; 

And  oft,  when  barr’d  of  Fortune’s  fickle  grace, 
Blank  ruin  stares  him  darkly  in  the  face, 

Leans  his  faint  head  upon  her  kindly  breast, 
And  owns  her  power  to  soothe  him  interest,-^ 
Owns  what  the  gift  of  woman’s  love  is  worth 
To  cheer  his  toils  and  trials  upon  earth ! 

“ Sure  it  is  much,  this  delegated  power 
To  be  consoler  of  man’s  heaviest  hour  ! 

The  guardian  angel  of  a life  of  care. 

Allow’d  to  stand  ’twixt  him  and  his  despair! 


THE  DREAM. 

Such  service  may  be  made  a holy  task  ; 

And  more,  ’twere  vain  to  hope,  and  rash  to  ask. 
Therefore,  oh  ! loved  and  lovely,  be  content, 
And  take  thy  lot,  with  joy  and  sorrow  blent. 
Judge  none  ; yet  let  thy  share  of  conduct  be, 

As  knowing  judgment  shall  be  pass’d  on  thee 
Here  and  hereafter;  so,  still  undismay’d. 

And  guarded  by  thy  sweet  thoughts’  tranquil 
shade. 

Undazzled  by  the  changeful  rays  which  threw 
Their  light  across  thy  path  while  life  was  new, 
Thou  shall  move  sober  on, — expecting  less. 
Therefore  the  more  enjoying,  happiness.” 

There  was  a pause ; then,  with  a tremulous 
smile, 

The  maiden  turn’d  and  press’d  her  mother’s 
hand  : — 

“ Shall  I not  bear  what  thou  hast  borne 
e’rewhile  ? 

Shall  I,  rebellious.  Heaven’s  high  will  witii- 
stand  ? 

No  ! cheerly  on,  my  wandering  path  I’ll  take, 
Nor  fear  the  destiny  I did  not  make  : 

Though  earthly  joy  grow  dim — though  pleasure 
waneth — 

This  thou  hast  taught  thy  child,  that  God  re« 
maineth !” 

And  from  her  mother’s  fond  protecting  side 
She  went  into  the  world  a youthful  bride. 


<i^> 


5^, 


A DESTINY 


There  was  a lady,  who  had  early  w’ed 
One  whom  she  saw  and  loved  in  her  bright 
youth, 

When  life  was  yet  untried — and  when  he  said 
He,  too,  lov’d  her,  he  spoke  no  more  than 
truth ; 

He  lov’d  as  well  as  baser  nature  can, — 

But  a mean  heart  and  soul  were  in  that  man. 

And  they  dwelt  happily,  if  happy  be 

Not  with  harsh  words  to  breed  unnatural 
strife : 

The  cold  world’s  Argus -watching  failed  to  see 
The  flaw  that  dimm’d  the  lustre  of  their  life ; 
Save  that  he  seem’d  tyrannical,  tho’  gay, 
Restless  and  selfish  in  his  love  of  sway. 

The  calm  of  conscious  power  was  not  in  him  ; 

But  rather  struggling  into  broader  light. 

The  secret  sense,  they  feel,  however  dim, 
Whose  chance  position  gives  a sort  of  right 
(As  from  the  height  of  a prescriptive  throne,) 

To  govern  natures  nobler  than  their  own. 

71 


72 


A DESTINT. 


And  as  her  youth  waned  slowly  on,  there  fell 
A nameless  shadow  on  that  lady’s  heart ; 
And  those  she  lov’d  the  best  (and  she  lov’d  well,) 
Had  of  her  confidence  nor  share,  nor  part ; 
Her  thoughts  lay  folded  from  life’s  lessening 
light, 

Like  the  sweet  flowers  that  close  themselves  at 
night. 

And  men  began  to  whisper  evil  things 
Against  the  honor  of  her  wedded  mate  ; 

That  which  had  pass’d  for  youth’s  wild  wander- 
ings, 

Showed  more  suspicious  in  his  settled  state  ; 
Until  at  length, — he  stood,  at  some  chance  game, 
Discover’d, — branded  with  a Cheater’s  name. 

Out,  and  away  he  slunk,  with  felon  air ; 

Then,  calling  to  him  one  who  was  his  friend, 
Bid  him  to  that  unblemish’d  wife  repair 
And  tell  her  what  had  chanced,  and  what  the 
end ; 

How  they  must  leave  the  country  of  their  birth, 
And  hide, — in  some  more  distant  spot  of  earth. 

It  was  a coward’s  thought : he  could  not  bear 
Himself  to  be  narrator  of  his  shame  ; 

He  that  had  trampled  oft,  now  felt  in  fear 
Of  her  who  still  must  keep  his  blighted 
name, — 

And  shrank  in  fancy  from  that  steadfast  eye. 
The  window  to  a soul  so  pure  and  high. 


A DESTINY.  73 

She  heard  it.  O’er  her  brow  there  pass’d  a 
flush 

Of  sunset  red  ; and  then  so  white  a hue, 

So  deadly  pale,  it  seem’d  as  if  no  blush 
Through  that  transparent  check  should  shine 
anew ; 

As  if  the  blood  had  frozen  in  that  hour, 

And  her  check’d  pulse  for  ever  lost  its  power. 

And  twice  and  once  did  she  essay  to  speak  ; 

And  with  a gesture  almost  of  command, 
(Though  in  its  motion  it  was  deadly  weak) 

She  faintly  lifted  up  her  graceful  hand  - 
But  then  her  soul  came  back  to  her,  strength 
woke, 

And  with  a low  but  even  voice,  she  spoke  : 

“Go!  say  to  him  w'ho  dreamed  of  other 
chance. 

That  HERE  none  sit  in  judgment  on  his  sin  ; 
That  to  his  door  the  world’s  scorn  may  advance, 
x\nd  cloud  his  path,  but  doth  not  enter  in. 
Here  dwell  his  Own : to  share,  to  soothe  dis- 
grace — 

Which  having  said,  she  cover’d  up  her  face. 

And,  as  he  left  her,  sank  in  bitter  prayer, — 

If  prayer  that  may  be  term’d  which  comes  to 
all, 

That  sudden  gushing  of  our  vain  despair. 

When  none  but  (jrod  can  hear  or  heed  our 


74 


A DESTINY. 


And  the  wreck’d  soul  feels,  in  its  helpless  hour, 
Where  only  dwells  full  mercy  with  full  power. 

And  he  came  home,  a crush’d  and  humbled 
wretch ; 

Whom  when  she  saw,  she  but  this  comfort 
found. 

In  her  kind  arms  that  shrinking  form  to  catch, 
Which  tenderly  about  his  neck  she  wound, 
As  in  the  first  proud  days  of  love  and  trust, 

E’re  yet  his  reckless  head  was  bow’d  in  dust ; 

And  they  departed  to  a distant  shore  ; 

But  wheresoe’er  they  dwelt,  however  lone. 
Shame,  like  a marble  statue  at  his  door, 

Flung  her  ’thwart  shadow  o’er  his  threshold 
stone ; 

Still  darken’d  all  their  daylight  hours,  and  kept 
Cold  watch  above  them  even  while  they  slept. 

And  there  was  no  more  love  between  these  two ! 

It  died  not  in  the  shock  of  that  dark  hour — 
Such  shocks  destroy  not  love,  whose  purple  hue 
Fades  rather  like  some  autumn- wither’d 
flower. 

Which  day  by  day  along  the  ruin’d  walk 
We  see — then  miss  it  from  the  sapless  stalk; 

And,  while  it  fadeth,  oft  with  gentle  hand 
Doth  memory  turn  to  life’s  dark  journal-book ; 
And,  passing  foul  misdeeds,  intently  stand 
On  its  first  page  of  glorious  hope  to  look ; 


A DESTINY. 


75 


Weeping  she  reads, — and,  seeing  all  so  fair, 
Pleads  hard  for  what  we  are,  by  what  we  were  / 

So  through  that  hour  love  lived ; and,  though  in 
part 

’Twas  one  of  most  unutterable  pain, 

It  had  its  sweetness  too,  and  told  her  heart 
All  she  could  do,  and  all  she  could  sustain; 
The  holy  love  of  woman  buoy’d  her  up, 

And  God  gave  strength  to  drink  the  bitter  cup. 

But  when,  as  days  crept  on,  she  saw  him  still 
Less  grateful  than  abash’d  beneath  her  eye, 
And  studying  not  how  best  to  banish  ill. 

But  what  he  might  conceal  and  what  deny, 
Her  soul  revolted,  and  conceived  a scorn. 

Sinful  and  harsh,  although  of  virtue  born. 

And  oft  she  pray’d,  wdth  earnestness  and  pain. 
That  heaven  would  bid  that  proud  contempt 
depart. 

And  wept  to  find  the  prayer  and  effort  vain. 
Though  it  was  breath’d  in  agony  of  heart— 
Vain  as  the  murmur  of  “ Thy  will  be  done,” 
Breathed  by  the  death-bed  of  an  only  son  ! 

For  when  her  children  err’d  (as  children  will) 

A sickening  terror  smote  her  heart  with  fears. 
And  scarce  she  measured  the  degree  of  ill. 

Or  made  indulgence  for  their  tender  years  ; 
They  were  his  children ; and  the  chance  of 
shame 

Kept  watch  for  those  who  bore  that  father’s  name. 


And,  thinking  thus,  reproof  would  take  a /one 
So  strangely  passionate,  severe,  and  wild,— 
So  deeply  altered, — so  unlike  her  own, — 

It  stung.and  terrified  her  startled  child. 
Whose  innaie  sense  of  justice  seemed  to  show 
Him  over-chidden,  being  chidden  so. 

And  then  a gush  of  mother’s  love  would  swell 
Her  grieving  heart, — and  she  would  fondly 
press 

The  young  offending  head  she  loved  so  well 
Close  to  her  own,  with  many  a soft  caress, 
Whose  reconciling  sweetness  all  in  vain 
Stopp’d  her  boy’s  tears,  while  her’s  ran  down 
like  rain. 

The  world  (which  still  pronounces  from  the  sho\t> 
Of  outward  things)  whisper’d  and  talk’d  of 
this ; 

Erring  and  obstinate,  its  crowds  ne’er  knew 
How  much  in  judging  they  may  judge  amiss, 
Or  how  much  agony  and  broken  peace 
May  lie  beneath  the  seeming  of  caprice  ! 

But  he,  her  husband  (for  he  was  not  dull,) 

Saw  through  these  workings  of  a troubled 
mind, 

And,  that  her  cup  of  sorrow  might  be  full, 

He  taunted  her  with  words  and  looks  unkind, 
Which  with  a patient  bowing  of  the  heart 
She  took — like  one  resolved  to  do  her  part. 


A DESTINY. 


77 


And  years  stole  on  (for  years  go  by  like  days, 
Leaving  but  scatter’d  hours  to  mark  their 
course,) 

And  brightness  faded  from  that  lady’s  gaze, 
And  her  cheek  hollow’d,  and  her  step  lost 
force, 

Till  it  was  plain  to  even  a careless  eye 

That  she  was  doom’d,  before  her  time,  to  die. 

She  died,  as  she  had  lived,  her  secret  soul 
Shut  from  the  sweet  communion  of  true 
friends ; 

Her  words,  though  not  her  thoughts,  she  could 
control. 

And  still  with  calm  respect  his  name  she 
blends : 

They  all  stood  round  her  whom  she  call’d  her 
own. 

And  saw  her  die — yet  was  that  death-bed  lone  ! 

But  in  its  darkest  hour  her  thoughts  were  stirr’d 
And  something  falter’d  from  her  dying  tongue, 

Mournful  and  tender — half  pronounced,  half 
heard — 

For  which  he  was  too  base — his  boys  too 
young ; 

So,  whatsoe’er  the  warning  faintly  given. 

It  lay  between  her  parting  soul  and  Heaven. 

He  wept  for  her — ah ! who  would  7iot  have  wept 
To  see  that  worn  face  in  its  pallid  shroud, 

Proving  how  much  she  suffer’d  ere  she  slept 


At  peace  for  ever  ! Violent  and  loud 

Was  the  outbreaking  of  his  sudden  grief, 

And,  like  all  feelings  in  that  heart,  ’twas  brief. 

And  something  strange  pass’d  o’er  his  soul  in- 
stead, 

When  thinking  upon  her  whom  he  had  lost. 

Almost  like  a relief  that  she  was  dead  : — 

She,  whose  high  nature  scorn’d  his  fault  the 
most. 

And  show’d  it  least, — had  vanish’d  from  the 
earth. 

And  none  could  check  his  sin,  or  shame  his 
mirth. 

So  he  return’d  to  many  an  evil  way. 

Like  one  who  strays  when  guiding  light  is 
gone  ; 

And  mid  the  profligate,  miscall’d  “ the  gay,” 
Crept  to  a slippery  place — his  tale  half  known — 

III  look’d  on,  yet  endured — the  useful  tool 

Of  every  bolder  knave,  or  richer  fool. 

And  his  two  sons  in  careless  beauty  grew. 

Like  wild  flowers  in  his  path : he  mark’d  them 
not. 

Nor  reck’d  he  what  they  needed,  learnt,  or 
knew. 

Or  what  might  be  on  earth  their  future  lot ; 

But  they  died  young — which  is  a thought  of 
rest ! — 

Unscorn’d,  untempted,  undefiled — so  best. 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 


Elle  etait  de  ce  monde,  ou  les  plus  belles  cho.s<;8 
Out  le  pire  destin  ; 

Et  Rose,  elle  a vecu  ce  qiie  vivent  les  Roses, 
L’espace  d’un  matin ! 


She  came  to  England  from  the  island  clime 
Which  lies  beyond  the  far  Atlantic  wave  ; 

She  died  in  early  youth — before  her  time — 

“ Peace  to  her  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave P’ 

She  was  the  child  of  Passion,  and  of  Shame, 
English  her  father,  and  of  noble  birth ; 

Though  too  obscure  for  good  or  evil  fame, 

Her  unknown  mother  faded  from  the  earth. 

And  what  that  fair  West  Indian  did  betide, 
None  knew  but  he,  who  least  of  all  miglu 
tell,— 

But  that  she  lived,  and  loved,  and  lonely  died, 
And  sent  this  orphan  child  with  him  to  dwell. 

Oh  ! that  a fair,  an  innocent  young  face 
Should  have  a poison  in  its  looks  alone, 

79 


80 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 


To  raise  up  thoughts  of  sorrow  and  disgrace 
And  shame  most  bitter,  although  not  its  own  1 

Cruel  were  they  who  flung  that  heavy  shade 
Across  the  life  whose  days  did  but  begin  ; 

Cruel  were  they  whtf  crush’d  her  heart,  and 
made  , 

Her  youth  pay  penance  for  his  youth’s  wild 
sin ; 

Yet  so  it  was  ; — among  her  father’s  friends 
A cold  compassion  made  contempt  seem  light. 

But,  in  “ the  world,”  no  justice  e’er  defends 
The  victims  of  their  tortuous  wrong  and 
right 

And  “ moral  England,”  striking  down  the 
weak. 

And  smiling  at  the  vices  of  the  strong, 

On  her,  poor  child ! her  parent’s  guilt  woul4 
wreak. 

And  that  which  was  her  grievance,  made  hei 
wrong. 

The  world  she  understood  not ; nor  did  they 
Who  made  that  world, — her,  either,  under 
stand  ; 

The  very  glory  of  her  features’  play 

Seem’d  like  the  language  of  a foreign  land; 

The  shadowy  feelings,  rich  and  wild  and  warm. 
That  glow’d  and  mantled  in  her  lovely  face,^ 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 


81 


The  slight  full  beauty  of  her  youthful  form. 

Its  gentle  majesty,  its  pliant  grace, — 

The  languid  lustre  of  her  speaking  eye. 

The  indolent  smile  of  that  bewitching  mouth, 
(Which  more  than  all  betray’d  her  natal  sky, 
And  left  us  dreaming  of  the  sunny  South,) — 

The  passionate  variation  of  her  blood. 

Which  rose  and  sank,  as  rise  and  sink  the 
waves, 

With  every  changeof  her  most  changeful  mood, 
Shock'd  sickly  Fashion’s  pale  and  guarded 
slaves. 

And  so  in  this  fair  world  she  stood  alone, 

An  alien  ’mid  the  ever-moving  crowd, 

A wandering  stranger,  nameless  and  unknown 
Her  claim  to  human  kindness  disallow’d. 

But  oft  would  Passion’s  bold  and  burning  gaze^ 
And  Curiosity’s  set  frozen  stare. 

Fix  on  her  beauty  in  those  early  days. 

And  coarsely  thus  her  loveliness  declare  ! 

Which  she  would  shrink  from,  as  the  gentle 
plant. 

Fern-leaved  Mimosa  folds  itself  away  ; 
Suffering  and  sad ; — for  easy  ’twas  to  daunt 
One  who  on  earth  had  no  protecting  stay. 

And  often  to  her  eye’s  transparent  lid 
The  unshed  tears  would  rise  with  sudden  start, 
6 


82 


tH£  creole  girl. 


And  sink  again,  as  though  by  Reason  chid, 
Back  to  their  gentle  home,  her  wounded  heart; 

Even  as  some  gushing  fountain  idly  wells 
Up  to  the  prison  of  its  marble  side. 

Whose  power  the  mounting  wave  forever 
quells, — 

vSo  rose  her  tears — so  stemm’d  by  virgin  pride. 

And  so  more  lonely  each  succeeding  day, 

As  she  her  lot  did  better  understand, 

She  lived  a life  which  had  in  it  decay, 

A flower  transplanted  to  too  cold  a land, — 

Which  for  a while  gives  out  a hope  of  bloom, 
Then  fades  and  pines,  because  it  may  not  feel 
The  freedom  and  the  warmth  which  gave  it 
room 

The  beauty  of  its  nature  to  reveal. 

For  vainly  would  the  heart  accept  its  lot, 

And  rouse  its  strength  to  bear  avow'd  con 
tempt. 

Scorn  xnill  be  felt  as  scorn — deserved  or  not — 
And  from  its  bitter  spell  none  stand  exempt 

There  is  a basilisk  power  in  human  eyes 
When  they  w'ould  look  a fellow-creature  down, 
’Neath  which  the  faint  soul  fascinated  lies, 
StJU(k  by  the  cold  sneer  and  the  with’ ring 
frown. 

But  one  tiieie  was  among  the  crael  crowd. 
Whose  nature  half  rebell’d  against  the  chain, 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL.  83 

Which  fashion  flung  around  him ; though  toe 
proud 

To  own  that  slavery’s  weariness  and  pain. 

Too  proud  ; perhaps  too  weak  ; for  Custom  still 
Curbs  with  an  iron  bit  the  souls  born  free  ; 
They  start  and  chafe,  yet  bend  them  to  the  will 
Of  this  most  nameless  ruler, — so  did  he. 

And  even  unto  him  the  worldly  brand 
Which  rested  on  her,  half  her  charm  effaced  ; 
Vainly  all  pure  and  radiant  did  she  stand, — 
Even  unto  him  she  was  a thing  disgraced. 

Had  she  been  early  doom’d  a cloister’d  nun, 

To  Heaven  devoted  by  an  holy  vow — 

His  union  with  that  poor  deserted  one 

Had  seem’d  not  ?wore  impossible  than  now. 

He  could  have  loved  her — fervently  and  well ; 

But  still  the  cold  world  with  its  false  allure, 
Bound  his  free  liking  in  an  icy  spell, 

And  made  its  whole  foundation  insecure. 

But  not  like  meaner  souls,  would  he,  to  prove 
A vulgar  admiration,  her  pursue  ; 

For  though  his  glance  after  her  would  rove. 

As  something  beautiful,  and  strange,  and  new, 

They  were  withdrawn  if  but  her  eye  met  his, 
Or,  for  an  instant  if  their  light  remain’d, 

They  soften’d  into  gentlest  tenderness. 

As  asking  pardon  that  his  look  had  pain’d. 


84 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 


And  she  was  nothing  unto  him, — nor  he 
Aught  unto  her ; but  each  of  each  did  dream 
In  the  still  hours  of  thought,  when  we  are  free 
To  quit  the  real  world  for  things  which  seem. 

When  in  his  heart  Love’s  folded  wings  would 
stir, 

And  bid  his  youth  choose  out  a fitting  mate, 
Against  his  will  his  thoughts  roam’d  back  to  her, 
And  all  around  seem’d  blank  and  desolate. 

When,  in  his  worldly  haunts,  a smother’d  sigh 
Told  he  had  won  some  lady  of  the  land, 

The  dreaming  glances  of  earnest  eye 
Beheld  far  off  the  Creole  orphan  stand  ; 

And  to  the  beauty  by  his  side  he  froze. 

As  though  she  were  not  fair,  nor  he  so  young. 
And  turn’d  on  her  such  looks  of  cold  repose 
As  check’d  the  trembling  accents  of  her 
tongue. 

And  bid  her  heart’s  dim  passion  seek  to  bide 
Its  gathering  strength,  although  the  task  be 
pain, 

Lest  she  become  that  mock  to  woman’s  pride — 
A wretch  that  loves  un woo’d,  and  loves  in 
vain. 

So  in  his  heart  she  dwelt, — as  one  may  dwell 
Upon  the  verge  of  a forbidden  ground  ; 

And  oft  he  struggled  hard  to  break  the  spell 
And  banish  her,  but  vain  the  effort  found ; 


For  still  along  the  winding  way  which  led 
Into  his  inmost  soul,  unbidden  came 
Her  haunting  form, — and  he  was  visited 
By  echoes  soft  of  her  unspoken  name, 

Through  the  long  night,  when  those  we  love 
seem  near. 

However  cold,  however  far  away. 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  floating  dreams,  which 
cheer 

And  give  us  strength  to  meet  the  struggling 
day. 

And  when  in  twilight  hours  she  roved  apart. 
Feeding  her  love-sick  soul  with  visions  fair, 
The  shadow  of  his  eyes  was  on  her  heart. 

And  the  smooth  masses  of  his  shining  hair 

Rose  in  the  glory  of  the  evening  light. 

And,  where  she  wander’d  glided,  evermore, 
A star  which  beam’d  upon  her  world’s  lone  night 
Where  nothing  glad  had  ever  shone  before. 

But  vague  and  girlish  was  that  love, — no  hope. 
Even  of  familiar  greeting,  ever  cross’d 
Its  innocent,  but,  oh  I most  boundless  scope  ; 
She  loved  him , — and  she  knew  her  love  was  lost. 

She  gazed  on  him,  as  one  from  out  a bark. 
Bound  onward  to  a cold  and  distant  strand, 
Some  lovely  bay,  some  haven  fair  may  mark. 
Stretching  far  inward  to  a sunnier  land  ; 


Who,  knowing  he  must  still  sail  on,  turns  back 
To  watch  with  dreaming  and  most  mournful 
eyes 

The  ruffling  foam  which  follows  in  his  track, 

Or  the  deep  starlight  of  the  shoreless  skies. 

Oh ! many  a hopeless  love  like  this  may  be,— 
For  love  will  live  that  never  looks  to  win* 
Gems  rashly  lost  in  Passion’s  stormy  sea, 

Not  to  be  lifted  forth  when  once  cast  in  ! 

PART  IT 


So  time  roll’d  on,  till  suddenly  that  child 
Of  southron  clime  and  feelings,  droop’d  and 
pined  ; 

Her  cheek  wax’d  paler,  and  her  eye  grew  wild. 
And  from  her  youthful  form  all  strength  de. 
dined. 

Twas  then  I knew  her;  late  and  vainly  call’d. 
To  “ minister  unto  a mind  diseased,” — 
When  on  her  heart’s  faint  sickness  all  things 
pall’d. 

And  the  deep  inward  pain  was  never  eased  : 

Her  step  was  always  gentle,  but  at  last 
It  fell  as  lightly  as  a wither’d  leaf 
In  autumn  hours  ; and  wheresoe’er  she  pass’d 
Smiles  died  away,  she  look’d  so  full  of  grief. 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL.  87 

And  more  than  ever  from  that  world,  where 
still 

Her  father  hoped  to  place  her,  she  would 
shrink  ; 

Loving  to  be  alone,  her  thirst  to  fill 
From  the  sweet  fountain  where  the  dream- 
ers drink. 

One  eve,  beneath  the  acacia’s  waving  bough. 
Wrapt  in  these  lonely  thoughts  she  sate  and 
read ; 

Her  dark  hair  parted  from  her  sunny  brow, 

Her  graceful  arm  beneath  her  languid  head; 

And  droopingly  and  sad  she  hung  above 
The  open  page,  whereon  her  eyes  were  bent. 

’With  looks  of  fond  regret  and  pining  love  ; 

Nor  heard  my  step,  so  deep  was  she  intent. 

And  when  she  me  perceived,  she  did  not  start, 
But  lifted  up  those  soft  dark  eyes  to  mine, 

And  smiled,  (that  mournful  smile  which  breaks 
the  heart !) 

Then  glanced  again  upon  the  printed  line. 

**  What  readest  thou  ?”  I ask’d.  With  fervent 
gaze. 

As  though  she  would  have  scann’d  my  inmost 
soul, 

§he  turn’d  to  me,  and,  as  a child  obeys 
The  accustom’d  question  of  revered  control. 


88 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 


She  pointed  to  the  title  of  that  book, 

(Which,  bending  down,  I saw  was  “ Coralie,’’) 
Then  gave  me  one  imploring  piteous  look. 

And  tears,  too  long  restrain’d,  gush’d  fast 
and  free. 

It  was  a tale  of  one,  whose  fate  had  been 
Too  like  her  own  to  make  that  weeping 
strange  ; 

Like  her,  transplanted  from  a sunnier  scene  ; 
Like  her,  all  dull’d  and  blighted  by  the  change. 

No  further  word  was  breathed  between  us  two ; — 
No  confidence  was  made  to  keep  or  break; — 
But  since  that  day,  which  pierced  my  soul  quite 
thro’ , 

My  hand  the  dying  girl  wmuld  faintly  take. 

And  murmur,  as  its  grasp  (ah  ! piteous  end  I) 
Return’d  the  feeble  pressure  of  her  own, 

“Be  with  me  to  the  last, — for  thou,  dear  friend, 
Hast  all  my  struggles,  all  my  sorrow  known  1” 

She  died  ! — The  pulse  of  that  untrammell’d 
heart 

Fainted  to  stillness.  Those  most  glorious 
eyes 

Closed  on  the  world  where  she  had  dwelt  apart 
And  her  cold  bosom  heaved  no  further  sighs. 

She  died ! — and  no  one  mourn’d,  except  her 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL.  89 

Who  for  a while  look’d  out  with  eyes  more 
dim  ; 

Lone  was  her  place  beside  his  household  fire, 

Vanish’d  the  face  that  ever  smiled  on  him. 

And  no  one  said  to  him — “ Why  mournest 
thou  ?” 

Because  she  was  the  unknown  child  of  shame; 

(Albeit  her  mother  better  kept  the  vow 

Of  faithful  love,  than  some  who  keep  their 
fame.) 

Poor  mother,  and  poor  child  ! — unvalued  lives ! 

Wan  leaves  that  perish’d  in  obscurest  shade  I 

While  round  me  still  the  proud  world  stirs  and 
strives, 

Say,  Shall  I weep  that  ye  are  lowly  laid  ? 

Shall  I mourn  for  ye  ? No  ! — and  least  for  thee. 

Young  dreamer,  whose  pure  heart  gavp  way 
before 

Thy  bark  was  launch’d  upon  Love’s  stormy  sea, 

Or  treachery  wreck’d  it  on  the  farther  shore. 

Least,  least  of  all  for  thee ! Thou  art  gone 
hence  ? 

Thee  never  more  shall  scornful  looks  oppress. 

Thee  the  world  wrings  not  with  some  vain  pre- 
tence, 

Nor  chills  thy  tears,  nor  mocks  at  thy  distress. 

From  man’s  injustice,  from  the  cold  award 

Of  the  unfeeling,  thou  hast  pass’d  away  ; 


90 


TWILIGHT. 


Thou  Tt  at  the  gates  of  light  where  angels  guard 
Thy  path  to  realms  of  bright  eternal  day. 

There  shall  thy  soul  its  chains  of  slavery  burst, 
There,  meekly  standing  before  God’s  nigh 
throne, 

Thou’ It  find  the  judgments  ofour  earth  reversed, 
And  answer  for  no  errors  but  thine  own. 


TWILIGHT. 


It  is  the  twilight  hour. 

The  daylight  toil  is  done. 

And  the  last  rays  are  departing 
Of  the  cold  and  wintry  sun. 

It  is  the  time  when  Friendship 
Holds  converse  fair  and  free. 

It  is  the  time  when  children 
Dance  round  the  mother’s  knee. 
But  my  soul  is  faint  and  heavy. 

With  a yearning  sad  and  deep. 

By  the  fireside  lone  and  dreary 
I sit  me  down  and  weep  ! 

Where  are  ye,  merry  voices. 

Whose  clear  and  bird-like  tone. 
Some  other  ear  now  blesses. 

Less  anxious  than  my  own? 
Where  are  ye,  steps  of  lightness, 
Which  fell  like  blossom-showers  ? 


TWILIQ-HT. 


91 


Where  are  ye,  sounds  of  laughter, 

That  cheer’d  the  pleasant  hours  ? 

Thro’  the  dim  light  slow  declining, 
Where  my  wistful  glances  fall, 

I can  see  your  pictures  hanging 
Against  the  silent  wall  ; — « 

They  gleam  athwart  the  darkness, 

With  their  sweet  and  changeless  eyes> 
But  mute  are  ye,  my  children ! 

No  voice  to  mine  replies. 

Where  are  ye  ? Are  ye  playing 
By  the  stranger's  blazing  hearth ; 
Forgetting,  in  your  gladness, 

Your  old  home’s  former  mirth  ? 

Are  ye  dancing  ? Are  ye  singing  ? 

Are  ye  full  of  childish  glee  ? 

Or  do  your  light  hearts  sadden 
With  the  .memory  of  me  ? 

Round  whom,  oh ! gentle  darlings, 

Do  your  young  arms  fondly  twine. 
Does  she  press  you  to  her  bosom 
Who  hath  taken  you  from  mine? 

Oh  ! boys,  the  twilight  hour 
Such  a heavy  time  hath  grown, — 

It  recalls  with  such  deep  anguish 
All  I used  to  call  my  own, — 

That  the  harshest  w'ord  that  ever 
Was  spoken  to  me  there, 

Would  be  trivial — would  be  welcome^* 
In  this  depth  of  my  despair  ! 

Yet  no  ! Despair  shall  sink  not,  . 

While  Life  and  Love  remain,*— 


TWILIGHT. 


Tho’  the  weary  struggle  haunt  me, 
And  my  prayer  be  made  in  vain: 
Tho’  at  times  my  spirit  fail  me, 

And  the  bitter  tear-drops  fall, 

Tho’  my  lot  be  hard  and  lonely, 

Yet  I hope — I hope  thro’  all ! 

When  the  mournful  Jewish  mother 
Laid  her  infant  down  to  rest, 

In  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow. 

On  the  water’s  changeful  breast; 
She  knew  not  what  the  future 
Should  bring  the  sorely-tried: 
That  the  High  Priest  of  her  nation, 
Was  the  babe  she  ought  to  hide. 
No  ! in  terror  wildly  flying. 

She  hurried  on  her  path : 

Her  swoln  heart  full  to  bursting 
Of  woman’s  helpless  wrath; 

Of  that  wrath  so  blent  with  anguish, 
When  w'e  seek  to  shield  from  ill 
Those  feeble  little  creatures 
Who  seem  more  helpless  still ! 

Ah  ! no  doubt  in  such  an  hour. 

Her  thoughts  were  harsh  and  wild 
The  fiercer  burned  her  spirit. 

The  more  she  loved  her  child  ; 

No  doubt,  a frenzied  anger 
Was  mingled  with  her  fear. 

When  that  prayer  arose  for  justice 
Which  God  hath  sw'orn  to  hear. 


TWILIGHT. 


93 


He  heard  it ! From  His  Heaven, 

In  its  blue  and  boundless  scope, 

He  saw  that  task  of  anguish, 

And  that  fragile  ark  of  hope  ; 

When  she  turn’d  from  that  lost  infant. 
Her  weeping  eyes  of  love, 

And  the  cold  reeds  bent  beneath  it — 

His  angels  watch’d  above  ! 

She  was  spared  the  bitter  sorrow 
Of  her  young  child’s  early  death, 

Or  the  doubt  where  he  was  carried 
To  draw  his  distant  breath  ; 

She  was  call’d  his  life  to  nourish 
From  the  well-springs  of  her  heart, 
God’s  mercy  re-uniting 
Those  whom  man  had  forced  apart ! 

Nor  was  iliy  forgotten, 

Whose  worn  and  weary  feet 
Were  driven  from  thy  homestead, 
Through  the  red  sand’s  parching  heat; 
Poor  Hagar  I scorn’d  and  banish’d. 

That  another’s  son  might  be 
Sole  claimant  on  that  father, 

Who  felt  no  more  for  thee. 

Ah  ! when  thy  dark  eye  wander’d, 
Forlorn  Egyptian  slave ! 

Across  that  lurid  desert, 

And  saw  no  fountain  wave,- — 

When  thy  southern  heart,  despairing, 

In  the  passion  of  its  grief, 

Foresaw  no  ray  of  comfort. 


TWILIGHT. 


No  shadow  of  relief ; 

But  to  cast  the  young  child  from  thee, 
That  thou  might’st  not  see  him  die, 
How  sank  thy  broken  spirit — 

But  the  Lord  of  Hosts  was  nigh ! 

He  (He,  too  oft  forgotten. 

In  sorrow  as  in  joy) 

Had  will'd  they  should  not  perish — 
The  outcast  and  her  boy  : 

The  cool  breeze  swept  across  them 
From  the  angel’s  waving  wing, — 
The  fresh  tide  gush’d  in  brightness 
From  the  fountain’s  living  spring, — 
And  they  stood — those  two — forsaken 
By  all  earthly  love  or  aid. 

Upheld  by  God’s  firm  promise. 

Serene  and  undismay’d  ! 

And  thou,  Nain’s  grieving  widow ! 

Whose  task  of  life  seem’d  done. 
When  the  pale  corse  lay  before  thee 
Of  thy  dear  and  only  son  ; 

Though  Death,  that  fearful  shadow, 
Had  veil’d  his  fair  young  eyes, 
There  was  mercy  for  thy  weeping, 
There  was  pity  for  thy  sighs  ! 

The  gentle  voice  of  Jesus, 

(Who  the  touch  of  sorrow  knew) 
The  grave’s  cold  claim  arrested 
E’er  it  hid  him  from  thy  view' ; 

And  those  loving  orbs  re-open’d 
And  knew  thy  mournful  face,— 


TWILIGHT.  95 

And  the  stiff  limbs  warm’d  and  bent  them 
With  all  life’s  moving  grace, — 

And  his  senses  dawn’d  and  w'akeivd 
From  the  dark  and  frozen  spell, 

Which  death  had  cast  around  him 
Whom  thou  didst  love  so  well; 

Till,  like  one  return’d  from  exile 
To  his  former  home  of  rest. 

Who  speaks  not  while  his  mother 
Falls  sobbing  on  his  breast  ; 

But  with  strange  bewilder’d  glances 
Looks  round  on  objects  near. 

To  recognise  and  welcome 
All  that  memory  held  dear, — 

Thy  young  son  stood  before  thee 
All  living  and  restored, 

And  they  who  saw  the  wonder 
Knelt  down  to  praise  the  Lord  ! 

The  twilight  hour  is  over  ! 

In  busier  homes  than  mine 
I can  see  the  shadows  crossing 
Athwart  the  taper’s  shine  ; 

I hear  the  roll  of  chariots 
And  the  tread  of  homeward  feet, 

And  the  lamps’  long  rows  of  splendour 
Gleam  through  the  misty  street. 

No  more  I mark  the  objects 
In  my  cold  and  cheerless  room  ; 

The  fire’s  unheeded  embers 
Have  sunk — and  all  is  gloom  ; 

But  I know  where  hang  your  pictures 


96 


TWILIGHT. 


Against  the  silent  wall, 

And  my  eyes  turn  sadly  towards  them, 
Tho’  I hope — I hope  thro’  all. 

By  the  summons  to  that  mother, 
Whose  fondness  fate  beguiled, 

When  the  tyrant’s  gentle  daughter 
Saved  her  river-floating  child  ; — 

By  the  sudden  joy  which  bounded 
In  the  banish’d  Hagar’s  heart. 

When  she  saw  the  gushing  fountain 
From  the  sandy  desert  start ; — 

By  the  living  smile  which  greeted 
The  lonely  one  of  Nain, 

When  her  long  last  watch  was  over 
And  her  hope  seem’d  wild  and  vain 
By  all  the  tender  mercy 

God  hath  shown  to  human  grief. 
When  fate  or  man’s  perverseness 
Denied  and  barr’d  relief, — 

By  the  helpless  woe  which  taught  me 
To  look  to  him  alone, 

From  the  vain  appeals  for  justice 
And  wild  efforts  of  my  own, — 

By  thy  light — thou  unseen  future. 

And  thy  tears — thou  bitter  past, 

I will  hope — tho’  all  forsake  me. 

In  His  mercy  to  the  last  I • 


THE  BLIND  MAN’S  BRIDE. 


When  first,  beloved,  in  vanish’d  hours 
The  blind  man  sought  ihy  love  to  gain. 
They  said  thy  cheek  was  bright  as  flowers 
New  freshen’d  by  the  summer  rain  : 

They  said  thy  movements,  swift  yet  soft, 
Were  such  as  make  the  winged  dovo 
Seem,  as  it  gently  soars  aloft, 

The  image  of  repose  and  love. 

They  told  me,  too,  an  eager  crowd 
Of  wooers  praised  thy  beauty  rare 
But  that  thy  heart  was  all  too  proud 
A common  love  to  meet  or  share. 

Ah  ! thine  was  neither  pride  nor  scorn. 

But  in  thy  coy  and  virgin  breast 
Dwelt  preference,  not  of  passion  born. 

The  love  that  hath  a holier  rest ! 

Days  came  and  went ; — thy  step  I heard 
Pause  frequent,  as  it  pass’d  me  by  : — 
Days  came  and  went ; — thy  heart  was  stirr’d 
And  answer’d  to  my  stifled  sigh ! 

And  thou  didst  make  a humble  choice. 


97 


98  THE  BLIND  MAN’s  BEIDE. 

Content  to  be  the  blind  man’s  bride, 

Who  loved  thee  for  thy  gentle  voice, 

And  own’d  no  joy  on  earth  beside. 

And  well  by  that  sweet  voice  I knew 
(Without  the  happiness  of  sight) 

Thy  years,  as  yet,  were  glad  and  few. 

Thy  smile,  most  innocently  bright: 

I knew  how  full  of  love’s  own  grace 
The  l^eauty  of  thy  form  must  be ; 

And  fancy  idolized  the  face 

Whose  loveliness  I might  not  see  ! 

Oh  ! happy  were  those  days,  beloved  ! 

I almost  ceased  for  light  to  pine 
When  thro’  the  summer  vales  we  roved. 

Thy  fond  hand  gently  link’d  in  mine. 

Thy  soft  “ Good  night”  still  sweetly  cheer’d 
The  unbroken  darkness  of  my  doom  ; 

And  thy  “ Good  morrow,  love,”  endear’d 
Each  sunrise  that  return’d  in  gloom  ! 

At  length,  as  years  roll’d  swiftly  on, 

They  spoke  to  me  of  Time’s  decay — 

Of  roses  from  thy  smooth  cheek  gone. 

And  ebon  ringlets  turn’d  to  gray. 

Ah  ! then  I bless' d the  sightless  eyes 

Which  could  not  feel  the  deepening  shade, 
Nor  watch  beneath  succeeding  skies 
Thy  withering  beauty  faintly  fade. 

/ saw  no  paleness  on  tby  cheek, 

No  lines  upon  thy  forehead  smooth, — 


THE  BLIND  MAN  S BRIDE.  99 

But  Still  the  blind  man  heard  thee  speak 
In  accents  made  to  bless  and  soothe. 

Still  he  could  feel  thy  guiding  hand 
As  thro’  the  woodlands  wild  we  ranged, — 
Still  in  the  summer  light  could  stand, 

And  know  thy  heart  and  voice  unchanged. 

And  still,  beloved,  till  life  grows  cold, 

We’ll  wander  ’neath  a genial  sky, 

And  only  know  that  we  are  old 
By  counting  happy  years  gone  by; 

For  thou  to  me  art  still  as  fair 

As  when  those  happy  years  began,— 

When  first  thou  cam’st  to  sooth  and  share 
The  sorrows  of  a sightless  man  ! 

Old  Time,  who  changes  all  below. 

To  wean  men  gently  for  the  grave, 

Hath  brought  us  no  increase  of  woe. 

And  leaves  us  all  he  ever  gave  ; 

For  I am  still  a helpless  thing, 

Whose  darken’d  world  is  cheer’d  by  thee — 
And  thou  art  she  whose  beauty’s  spring 

The  blind  man  vainly  yearn’d  to  see  i • 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON’S 
BETROTHED. 


Ah,  cease  to  plead  with  that  sweet  cheerful 
voice, 

Nor  bid  me  struggle  with  a weight  of  woe, 
Lest  from  the  very  tone  that  says  “ rejoice” 

A double  bitterness  of  grief  should  grow ; 
Those  words  from  thee  convey  no  gladdening 
thought. 

No  sound  of  comfort  lingers  in  their  tone, 

But  by  their  means  a haunting  shade  is  brought 
Of  love  and  happiness  forever  gone  ! 

My  son ! — alas,  hast  thou  forgotten  him, 

That  thou  art  full  of  hopeful  plans  again  ? 

His  heart  is  cold — his  joyous  eyes  are  dim, — 
For  him  the  future  is  a word  in  vain ! 

He  never  more  the  welcome  hours  may  share, 
Nor  bid  Love’s  sunshine  cheer  our  lonely 
home, — 

How  hast  thou  conquer’d  all  the  long  despair 
Born  of  that  sentence — He  is  in  the  tomb  f 
100 


ft 


% 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON^S  BETROTHED.  101 

How  can  thy  hand  with  cheerful  fondness  press 
* '/i  The  hands  of  friends  who  still  on  earth  may 

stay — 

Remembering  his  most  passionate  caress 
When  the  long  parting  summon’d  him 
away  ? 

How  can’st  thou  keep  from  bitter  weeping, 
while 

Strange  voices  tell  thee  thou  art  brightly  fair — 
Remembering  how  he  loved  thy  playful  smile, 
Kiss’d  thy  smooth  cheek,  and  praised  thy 
burnish’d  hair  ? 

How  can’st  thou  laugh  ? How  can’st  thou 
warble  songs  ? 

How  can’st  thou  lightly  tread  the  meadow- 
fields, 

Praising  the  freshness  which  to  spring  belongs. 
And  the  sweet  incense  which  the  hedge-flower 
yields  ? 

Does  not  the  many-blossom’d  spring  recall 

pleasant  walks  through  cowslip-spangled 
meads, — ' 

The  violet-scented  lanes — the  warm  south-wall, 
Where  early  flow’rets  rear’d  their  welcome 
heads  ? 

Docs  not  remembrance  darken  on  thy  brow 
When  the  wild  rose  a richer  fragrance  flings- 
When  the  caressing  breezes  lift  the  bough, 

And  the  sweet  thrush  more  passionately 
sings 


102  THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON’s  BETROTHED. 

Dost  thou  not,  then,  lament  for  him  whose  form 
Was  ever  near  thee,  full  of  earnest  grace  ? 

Does  not  the  sudden  darkness  of  the  storm 
Seem  luridly  to  fall  on  Nature’s  face  ? 

It  does  to  ME  ! The  murmuring  summer  breeze. 
Which  thou  dost  turn  thy  glowing  cheek  to 
meet. 

For  me  sweeps  desolately  through  the  trees. 
And  moans  a dying  requiem  at  my  feet ! 

The  glistening  river  which  in  beauty  glides. 
Sparkling  and  blue  with  morn’s  triumphant 
light. 

All  lonely  flows,  or  in  its  bosom  hides 
A broken  image  lost  to  human  sight ! 

But  THOU  ! — Ah  ! turn  thee  not  in  grief  away ; 

I do  not  wish  Ihy  soul  as  sadly  wrung — 

I know  the  freedom  of  thy  spirit’s  play, 

I know  thy  bounding  heart  is  fresh  and  young : 

I know  corroding  Time  will  slowly  break 
The  links  which  bound  most  fondly  and  most 
fast. 

And  Hope  will  be  Youth’s  comforter,  and  make 
The  long  bright  Future  overweigh  the-  Bast. 

Only,  when  full  of  tears  I raise  mine  eyes 
And  meet  thme  ever  full  of  smiling  light, 

I feel  as  though  thy  vanished  sympathies 

Were  buried  in  his  grave,  where  all  is  night  ; 

And  when  beside  our  lonely  hearth  I sit, 

And  thy  light  laugh  comes  echoing  to  my  ear, 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


103 


I wonder  how  the  waste  of  mirth  and  wit 
Hath  still  the  power  thy  widow’d  heart  to 
cheer  I 

Bear  with  me  yet ! Mine  is  a harsh  complaint ! 

And  thy  youth  s innocent  light-heartedness 
Should  rather  soothe  me  when  my  spirit’s  faint 
Than  seem  to  mock  my  age’s  lone  distress. 
But  oh  ! the  tide  of  grief  is  swelling  high, 

And  if  so  soon  forgetfulness  must  be  — 

If,  for  the  DEAD,  thou  hast  no  further  sigh, 

Weep  for  his  Mother  ! — Weep,  young  Bride, 
for  ME  ! 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


“ Te  teneam  moriens,  deficiente  manu.** 


Oh  ! watch  me ; watch  me  still 
Thro’  the  long  night’s  dreary  hours. 
Uphold  by  thy  firm  will 

Worn  Nature’s  sinking  powers  ! 

While  yet  thy  face  is  there 
(The  loose  locks  round  it  flying,) 

So  young,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 

I feel  not  1 am  dying  * 


104 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


Stoop  down,  and  kiss  ray  brow  ! 

The  shadows  round  me  closing 

Warn  me  that  dark  and  low 
I soon  shall  be  reposing. 

But  while  those  pitying  eyes 
Are  bending  thus  above  me, 

In  vain  the  death -dews  rise, — 

Thou  dost  regret  and  love  me  ! 

Then  w'atch  me  thro’  the  night. 

Thro’  ray  broken,  fitful  slumbers; 

By  the  pale  lamp’s  sickly  light 
My  dying  moments  number ! 

Thy  fond  and  patient  smile 
Shall  soothe  my  painful  waking  ; 

Thy  voice  shall  cheer  me  while 
The  slow  gray  dawn  is  breaking  ! 

The  battle-slain,  whose  thirst 
No  kindly  hand  assuages, 

Whose  low  faint  farewell  burst 
Unheard,  while  combat  rages,— 

The  exiled,  near  whose  bed 
Some  vision’d  form  seems  weeping, 

Whose  steps  shall  never  tread 
The  land  where  he  lies  sleeping,— 

The  drown’d,  whose  parting  breath 
Is  caught  by  wild  winds  only, — 

Theirs  is  the  bitter  death, 

Beloved,  for  they  die  lonely  ! 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


105 


But  thus,  tho’  rack’d,  to  lie. 

Thou  near,  tho’  full  of  sadness, 

Leaves  still,  e’en  while  I die, 

A lingering  gleam  of  gladness  ! 

Lfeel  not  half  my  pain 
When  to  mine  thy  fond  lip  presses,-^ 
I warm  to  life  again 
Beneath  thy  soft  caresses  ! 

Once  more,  oh  ! yet  once  more 
Fling,  fling  thy  white  arms  round  me, 
As  oft  in  days  of  yore 
Their  gentle  clasp  hath  bound  me  ; 

And  hold  me  to  that  breast 
Which  heaves  so  full  with  sorrow — 
Who  knows  where  I may  rest 
In  the  dark  and  blank  to-morrow  ? 

Ah  ! weep  not — it  shall  be 
An  after- thought  to  cheer  thee, 

That  while  mine  eyes  could  see. 

And  while  mine  ears  could  hear  thee— 

Thy  voice  and  smile  were  still 
The  spells  on  which  I doated. 

And  thou,  through  good  and  ill. 

To  me  and  mine  devoted  ! 

And  calmly  by  my  tomb. 

When  the  low  bright  day  declineth. 
And  athwart  the  cypress  gloom 
The  mellow  sunset  shineth, — 


THE  DYING  HOUR, 


Thou’lt  sit  and  think  of  Him, 

Who,  of  Heaven’s  immortal  splendor, 
Had  a dream  on  earth,  though  dim, 

In  thy  love  so  pure  and  tender, — 

Who  scarcely  feels  thy  touch, — 

Whom  thy  voice  can  rouse  no  longer, — 
But  whose  love  on  earth  was  such, 

That  only  death  was  stronger. 

Yes,  sit,  but  not  in  tears  ! 

Thine  eyes  in  faith  uplifting, 

From  thy  lot  of  changeful  years, 

To  the  Heaven  where  nought  is  shifting. 

From  this  world,  where  all  who  love 
Are  doomed  alike  to  sever. 

To  the  glorious  realms  above. 

Where  they  dwell  in  peace  for  ever ! 

And  then  such  hope  shall  beam 
From  the  grave  where  1 lie  sleeping, 
This  bitter  hour  shall  seem 
Too  vague  and  far  for  weeping — 

And  grief — ah  ! hold  me  now  ! 

My  fluttering  pulse  is  failing,-— 

The  death-dews  chill  my  brow,— 

The  morning  light  is  paling  ! 

I seek  thy  gaze  in  vain, — 

Earth  reels  and  fades  before  me , 

I die — but  feel  no  pain, — 

Thy  sweet  face  shining  o’er  me. 


S^! 


m 


I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE, 


T CANNOT  love  thee,  tho’  my  soul 
Be  one  which  all  good  thoughts  control; 
Aliho*  thy  eyes  be  starry  bright, 

And  the  gleams  of  golden  light 
Fall  upon  thy  silken  hair, 

And  ihy  forehead,  broad  and  fair; 
Sornelhing  of  a cold  disgust, 

(Wonderful,  and  most  unjust,) 
Something  of  a sullen  fear 
Weighs  my  heart  when  thou  art  near ; 
And  my  soul,  which  cannot  twine 
Thought  or  sympathy  with  thine, 

With  a coward  instinct  tries 
To  hide  from  thy  enamor'd  eyes. 
Wishing  for  a sudden  blindness 
To  escape  those  looks  of  kindness  ; 

Sad  she  folds  her  shivering  wings 
From  the  love  thy  spirit  brings. 

Like  a chained  thing,  caress’d 
By  the  hand  it  knows  the  best, 

By  the  liand  which,  day  by  day. 

Visits  its  imprison’d  stay. 

Bringing  gifts  of  fruit  and  blossom 

107 


# ■ 


a I 

ir  " 


a 


108  I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

From  the  green  earth’s  plenteous  bosom 
All  but  that  for  which  it  pines 
In  those  narrow  close  confines, 

With  a sad  and  ceaseless  sigh — 

Wild  and  winged  Liberty  1 

Can  It  be,  no  instinct  dwells 
In  th’  immortal  soul,  which  tells 
That  thy  love,  oh  ! human  brother. 

Is  unwelcome  to  another  ? 

Can  the  changeful  wavering  eye, 

Raised  to  thine  in  forced  reply,— 

Can  the  cold  constrained  smile. 
Shrinking  from  thee  all  the  while, 

Satisfy  thy  heart,  or  prove 
Such  a likeness  of  true  love  ? 

Seems  to  me,  that  I should  guess 
By  what  a world  of  bitterness. 

By  what  a gulf  of  hopeless  care. 

Our  two  hearts  divided  were  : 

Seems  to  me  that  I should  know 
All  the  dread  that  lurk’d  below. 

By  the  want  of  answer  found 
In  the  voice’s  trembling  sound 
By  the  unresponsive  gaze  ; 

By  the  smile  which  vainly  plays, 

In  whose  cold  imperfect  birth 
Glows  no  fondness,  lives  no  mirth ; 

By  the  sigh,  whose  different  tone 
Hath  no  echo  of  thine  own ; 


I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 


109 


By  the  hand’s  cold  clasp,  which  still 
Held  as  not  of  its  free  will, 

Shrinks,  as  it  for  freedom  yearn’d*,— 
That  my  love  was  unreturn’d. 

When  thy  tongue  (ah ! woe  is  me  !) 
Whispers  love-vows  tenderly, 

Mine  is  shaping,  all  unheard, 
Fragments  of  some  withering  word. 
Which,  by  its  complete  farewell. 

Shall  divide  us  like  a spell ! 

And  my  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 
Wishing  that  confession  past; 

And  the  tide  of  anguish  rises. 

Till  its  strength  my  soul  surprises. 

And  the  reckless  words,  unspoken, 
Nearly  have  the  silence  broken. 

With  a gush  like  some  wild  river,— 

“ Oh  ! depart,  depart  for  ever  !” 

But  my  faltering  courage  fails. 

And  my  drooping  spirit  quails  ; 

So  sweet-earnest  looks  thy  smile 
Full  of  tenderness  the  while. 

And  with  such  strange  pow’r  are  gifted 
The  eyes  to  which  my  own  are  lifted  ; 
So  my  faint  heart  dies  away. 

And  my  lip  can  nothing  say. 

And  I long  to  be  alone, — 

For  I weep  when  thou  art  gone  ! 

Yes,  I weep,  but  then  my  soul. 

Free  to  ponder  o’er  the  whole. 


no  I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Free  from  fears  which  check’d  its  thought, 
And  the  pain  thy  presence  brought, 
Whispers  me  the  useless  lie, — 

“ For  thy  love  he  will  not  die, 

Such  pity  is  but  vanity.” 

And  I bend  my  weary  head 
O’er  the  tablets  open  spread, 

Whose  fair  pages  me  invite 
All  I dared  not  say  to  write  ; 

And  my  fingers  take  the  pen, 

And  my  heart  feels  braced  again 
With  a resolute  intent  ; — ■ 

But,  ere  yet  that  page  be  sent, 

Once  I view  the  written  words 

Which  must  break  thy  true  heart’s  chords; 

And  a vision,  piercing  bright. 

Rises  on  my  coward  sight, 

Of  thy  fond  hand,  gladly  taking 
What  must  set  thy  bosom  aching  ; 

While  loo  soon  the  brittle  seal 
Bids  the  page  the  worst  reveal. 

Blending  in  thy  eager  gaze — 

Scorn,  and  anguish,  and  amaze. 

Powerless,  then,  my  hand  reposes 
On  the  tablet  which  it  closes. 

With  a cold  and  shivering  sense 
Born  of  Truth’s  omnipotence  : 

And  my  weeping  blots  the  leaves, 

And  my  sinking  spirit  grieves. 

Humbled  in  that  bitter  hour 
By  very  consciousness  of  power  ! 


L 


'Hi) 


CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

What  am  I,  that  I should  be 
Such  a source  of  woe  to  thee  ? 

What  am  I,  that  I should  dare 
Thus  to  play  with  thy  despair, 

And  persuade  myself  that  thou 
Wilt  not  bend  beneath  the  blow? 

Rather  should  my  conscience  move 
Me  to  think  of  this  vain  love, 

Which  my  life  of  peace  beguiles, 

As  a tax  on  foolish  smiles, 

Which — like  light  not  meant  for  one 
Who,  wandering,.in  the  dark  alone. 
Hath  yet  been  tempted  by  its  ray 
To  turn  aside  and  lose  his  way — 
Binds  me,  by  their  careless  sin. 

To  take  the  misled  wanderer  in. 

And  T praise  thee,  as  I go. 
Wandering,  weary,  full  of  woe. 

To  my  own  unwilling  heart ; 
Cheating  it  to  take  thy  part 
By  rehearsing  each  rare  merit 
Which  thy  nature  doth  inherit. 

To  myself  their  list  I give. 

Most  prosaic,  positive  : — 

How  thy  heart  is  good  and  true, 

And  thy  face  most  lair  to  view  ; 

How  the  powers  of  thy  mind 
Flatterers  in  the  wisest  find, 

And  the  talents  God  hath  given 
Seem  as  held  in  trust  for  Heaven; 


112  I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Laboring  on  for  noble  ends, — 

Steady  to  thy  boyhood’s  friends,— 
Slow  to  give,  or  take,  offence, — 

Full  of  earnest  eloquence, — 

Hopeful,  eager,  gay  of  cheer, — ■ 

Frank  in  all  thy  dealings  here, — 

Ready  to  redress  the  wrong 
Of  the  weak  against  the  strong, — • 
Keeping  up  an  honest  pride 
With  those  the  world  hath  deified. 

But  gently  bending  heart  and  brow 
To  the  helpless  and  the  low  ; — 

How,  in  brief,  there  dwells  in  thee 
All  that’s  generous  and  free, 

All  that  may  most  aptly  move 
My  Spirit  to  an  answering  love. 

But  in  vain  the  t^le  is  told ; 

Still  my  heart  lies  dead  and  cold, 

Still  it  wanders  and  rebels 

From  the  thought  that  thus  compels, 

And  refuses  to  rejoice 

Save  in  unconstrained  choice. 

Therefore,  when  thine  eyes  shall  read 
This,  my  book,  oh  take  thou  heed  ! 

In  the  dim  lines  written  here. 

All  shall  be  explained  and  clear; 

All  my  lips  could  never  speak 
When  my  heart  grew  coward* weak,— 
All  my  hand  could  never  write. 


I CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Tho’  I planned  it  day  and  night, — 

411  shall  be  at  length  confest, 

And  thou’ It  forgive, — and  let  me  rest  I 
None  but  thou  and  I shall  know 
Whose  the  doom,  and  whose  the  woe ; 
None  but  thou  and  I shall  share 
In  the  secret  printed  there  ; 

It  shall  be  a secret  still, 

Tho’  all  look  on  it  at  will ; 

And  the  eye  shall  read  in  vain 
What  the  heart  cannot  explain. 

Each  one,  baffled  in  his  turn. 

Shall  no  more  its  aim  discern. 

Than  a wanderer  who  might  look 
On  some  wizard’s  magic  book, 

Of  the  darkly-worded  spell 
Where  deep-hidden  meanings  dwell. 
Memory,  fancy,  they  shall  task 
This  sad  riddle  to  unmask, — 

Or,  with  bold  conjectural  fame, 
ti’it  the  pages  with  a name ; — 

But  nothing  shall  they  understand, 

\nd  vainly  shall  the  stranger’s  hand 
i^ssay  to  fling  the  leaves  apart, 

■Vhich  bears  my  message  to  thy  heart! 
8 


THE  POET’S  CHOICE. 


’Twas  in  youth,  that  hour  of  dreaming  ; 
Round  me,  visions  fair  were  beaming, 
Golden  fancies,  brightly  gleaming, 

Such  as  start  to  birth 
When  the  wandering  restless  mind. 

Drunk  with  beauty,  thinks  to  find 
Creatures  of  a fairy  kind 

Realized  on  Earth ! 

Then,  for  me,  in  every  dell 
Hamadryads  seem’d  to  dwell 
(They  who  die,  as  Poet’s  tell. 

Each  with  her  own  tree  ;) 
And  sweet  mermaids,  low  reclining, 

Dim  light  through  their  grottos  shining. 
Green  weeds  round  their  soft  limbs  twining, 
Peopled  the  deep  Sea. 

Then,  when  moon  and  stars  were  fair. 
Nymph-like  visions  fill’d  the  air. 

With  blue  wings  and  golden  hair 

Bending  from  the  skies; 
And  each  cave  by  echo  haunted 

114 


THE  POET  S CHOICE. 


115 


In  its  depth  of  shadow  granted, 

Brightly,  the  Egeria  w’anted, 

To  my  eager  eyes. 

But  those  glories  pass’d  away ; 

Earth  seem’d  left  to  dull  decay, 

And  my  heart  in  sadness  lay, 

Desolate,  uncheer’d; 

Like  one  wrapt  in  painful  sleeping, 

Pining,  thirsting,  waking,  weeping, 

Watch  thro’  Life’s  dark  midnight  keeping. 
Till  THY  form  appear’d! 

Then  my  soul,  w’hose  erring  measure 
Knew  not  where  to  find  true  pleasure. 

Woke  and  seized  the  golden  treasure 
Of  thy  human  love ; 

And,  looking  on  thy  radiant  brow, 

My  lips  in  gladness  breathed  the  vow 
Which  angels,  not  more  fair  than  thou, 

Have  register’d  above. 

And  now  I take  my  quiet  rest. 

With  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 

I will  make  no  further  quest 

In  Fancy’s  realms  of  lighL; 
Fay,  nor  nymph,  nor  winged  spirit. 

Shall  my  store  of  love  inherit ; 

More  thy  mortal  charm  doth  merit 

Than  dream,  however  bright. 

And  my  soul,  like  some  sweet  bird 
Whose  song  at  summer  eve  is  heard. 


116  THE  GERMAN  STUDENT’s  LOVE-SONG. 

When  the  breeze,  so  lightly  stirr’d, 

Leaves  the  branch  unbent,— 
Sits  and  all  triumphant  sings, 

Folding  up  her  brooding  wings, 

And  gazing  out  on  earthly  things 

With  a calm  content. 


THE  GERMAN  STUDENT’S  LOVE- 
SONG. 


“ Ich  liebe  dich !” 


By  the  rush  of  the  Rhine’s  broad  stream, 
Down  whose  rapid  tide 
We  sailed  as  in  some  sweet  dream 
Sitting  side  by  side  ; 

By  the  depth  of  its  clear  blue  wave 
And  the  vine-clad  hills, 

Which  gazed  on  its  heart  and  gave 
Their  tribute  rills ; 

By  the  mountains,  in  purple  shade. 

And  those  valleys  green 
Where  our  bower  of  rest  was  made, 

By  the  world  unseen  ; 

By  the  notes  of  the  wild  free  bird, 

Singing  over-head, 


THE  GEEMAN  STUDENT’ S LOVE-SONG.  117 

When  naught  else  in  the  sunshine  stirr'd 
Round  our  flower}^  bed; 

By  these,  and  by  Love’s  power  divine, 
I have  no  thought  but  what  is  thine  ? 

By  the  glance  of  thy  radiant  eyes, 

Where  a glory  shone 
That  was  half  of  the  summer  skies 
And  half  their  own  ; 

By  the  light  and  yet  fervent  hold 
Of  thy  gentle  hand, — 

(As  the  woodbines  the  flowers  unfold 
With  their  tender  band  ;) 

By  thy  voice  when  it  breathes  in  song, 

And  the  echo  given 
By  lips  that  to  Earth  belong. 

Float  up  to  Heaven  ; 

By  the  gleams  on  thy  silken  hair 
At  the  sunset  hour, 

And  the  breadth  of  thy  forehead  fair 
With  its  thoughtful  power  ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love’s  soul  divine, 

I have  no  hope  but  what  is  thine  ! 

By  the  beauty  and  stillness  round 
When  the  lake’s  lone  shore 
Scarce  echoed  the  pleasant  sound 
Of  the  distant  oar  ; 

By  the  moonlight  which  softly  fell 


118  the  GERMAN  STUDENT’s  LOVE-SONG. 

On  all  objects  near, 

And  thy  whisper  seemed  like  a spell 
In  thy  Lover’s  ear ; 

By  the  dreams  of  the  restless  past, 

And  the  hope  that  came 
Like  sunshine  in  shadow  cast 
With  thy  gentle  name  ; 

By  the  beat  of  thy  good  true  heart 
Where  pure  thoughts  have  birth  ; 

By  thy  tears  when  Fate  bade  us  part. 

And  thy  smiles  of  mirth  ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love’s  power  divine, 
I have  no  hope  but  what  is  thine  ! 

By  the  gloom  of  those  holy  fanes 
Where  the  light  stream’d  through 
Dim  orange  and  purple  panes 
On  the  aisles  below’ ; 

By  the  ruin’d  and  roofless  w'all 
Of  that  castle  high. 

With  its  turrets  so  gray  and  tall 
In  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

By  beauty,  because  its  light 
Should  thy  portion  be, 

And  whatever  is  fair  and  bright 
Seems  a part  of  thee; 

And  by  darkness  and  blank  decay, 

Because  they  tell 


THE  HT;NTING-H0RN  OF  CIIARLEMAONE.  119 

What  the  world  would  be,  thou  away, 
Whom  I love  so  well ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love’s  power  divine, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  my  life,  are  thine  * 


TflE  HUNTING  HORN  OF  CHARLE- 
MAGNE. 


Among  other  lebcs  preserved  in  the  Cathedral  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle  is  the  ivory  hunting-horn  of  Charle. 
magne.  It  is  massive  and  heavy,  and  the  attempt  of 
the  guide  to  sound  it  (for  the  amusement  of  tourists 
and  strangers)  is  singularly  unsuccessful,  the  note 
produced  being  the  most  faint  and  lugubrious  which 
it  is  possible  to  conceive. 


Sound  not  the  horn  !— the  guarded  relic  keep  : 
A faithful  sharer  of  its  master’s  sleep : 

His  life  it  gladden’d — to  his  life  belong’d, — 
Pause — ere  thy  lip  the  royal  dead  hath  wrong’d. 
Its  weary  weight  but  mocks  thy  feeble  hand  ; 
Its  desolate  note,  the  shrine  wherein  we  stand. 
Not  such  the  sound  it  gave  in  days  of  yore. 
When  that  rich  belt  a monarch’s  bosom  wore, — 
Not  such  the  sound  ! Far  over  hill  and  dell 
It  waked  the  echoes  with  triumphant  swell  ; 
Heard  midst  the  rushing  of  the  torrent’s  fall 
From  castled  crag  to  roofless  ruin’d  hall, 


120  THE  HUNTING-HORN  OP  CHARLEMAGNE. 

Down  the  ravine’s  precipitous  descent, 

Thro’  the  wild  forest’s  rustling  boughs  it  went, 
Upon  the  lake’s  blue  bosom  linger’d  fond, 

And  faintly  answer’d  from  the  hills  beyond  ; 

Pause  ! — the  free  winds  that  joyous  blast  have 
borne  ; — 

Dead  is  the  hunter ! — silent  be  the  horn ! 

Sound  not  the  horn  ! Bethink  thee  of  the  day 
When  to  the  chase  an  Emperor  led  the  way ; 

In  all  the  pride  of  manhood’s  noblest  prime, 
Untamed  by  sorrow,  and  untired  by  time, 

Life’s  pulses  throbbing  in  his  eager  breast. 
Glad,  active,  vigorous, — who  is  now  at  rest : — 
How  he  gazed  around  him  with  his  eagle  eye. 
Leapt  the  dark  rocks  that  frown  against  the  sky. 
Grasp’d  the  long  spear,  and  curb’d  the  panting 
steed, 

(Whose  fine  nerves  quiver  with  his  headlong 
speed  ' 

At  the  wild  cry  of  danger  smiled  in  scorn, 

And  firmly  sounded  that  re-echoing  horn  ! 

Ah  ! let  no  touch  the  ivory  tube  profane 
'Which  drank  the  breath  of  living  Charlemagne  ; 
Let  not  like  blast  by  meaner  lips  be  blown. 

But  by  the  hunter’s  side  the  horn  lay  down  ! 

Or,  following  to  his  palace,  dream  we  now 
Not  of  the  hunter’s  strength  or  forest  bough, 


ttHE  hunting-horn  of  CHARLEMAGNE.  121 

But  woman’s  love  ! Her  offering  this,  per 
chance, — 

This,  granted  to  each  stranger’s  casual  glance, 
This,  gazed  upon  with  coldly  curious  eyes. 

Was  giv’n  with  blushes,  and  received  with  sighs 
We  see  her  not ; — no  mournful  angel  stands 
’I’o  guard  her  love-gift  from  our  careless  hands 
But  fancy  brings  a vision  to  our  view — 

A woman’s  form,  the  trusted  and  the  true : 

The  strong  to  suffer,  tho’  so  weak  to  dare, 
Patient  to  watch  thro’  many  a day  of  care, 
Devoted,  anxious,  generous,  void  ofguHc, 

And  with  her  whole  heart’s  welcome  in  her 
smile; 

Even  such  I see  ! Her  maidens,  too,  are  there, 
And  wake,  with  chorus  sweet,  some  native  air ; 
But  tho’  her  proud  heart  holds  her  country  dear, 
And  tho’  she  loves  those  happy  songs  to  hear, 
She  bids  the  tale  be  hush'd,  the  harp  be  still, 
For  one  faint  blast  that  dies  along  the  hill. 

Up,  up,  she  springs;  her  young  head  backward 
throw’n  ; 

“ He  comes  ! my  hunter  comes  ! — Mine  own — 
mine  own  !” 

She  loves,  and  she  is  loved — her  gift  is  worn — 
’Tis  fancy,  all ! — And  yet — lay  down  the  horn  ! 

Love — life — what  are  ye  ? — since  to  love  and 
live 

No  surer  record  to  our  times  can  give ! 

Low  lies  the  hero  now,  whose  spoken  name 


122  THE  HUNTING-HORN  OF  CHARLEMAGNE. 

Could  fire  with  glory,  or  with  love  inflame  ; 
Low  lies  the  arm  of  might,  the  form  of  pride, 
And  dim  tradition  dreameth  by  his  side. 
Desolate  stands  those  painted  palace-halls, 

And  gradual  ruin  mines  the  massy  walls, 
Where  frank  hearts  greeted  many  a welcome 
guest. 

And  loudly  rang  the  beaker  and  the  jest ; — 
While  here,  within  this  chapel’s  narrow  bound, 
Whose  frozen  silence  startles  to  the  sound 
Of  stranger  voices  ringing  thro’  the  air. 

Or  faintly  echoes  many  a humble  prayer; 

Here,  where  the  window,  narrow  arch’d,  and 
high, 

With  jealous  bars  shuts  out  the  free  blue  sky, — 
Where  glimmers  down,  with  various-painted 
ray, 

A prison’d  portion  of  God’s  glorious  day, — 
Where  never  comes  the  breezy  breath  of  morni 
Here,  mighty  hunter,  feebly  wakes  thy  horn ! 


THE  FAITHFUL  FRIEND. 


“ Coming  through  the  churchyard  here,  I espied  a 
young  man  who  had  flung  himself  down  on  the  grave 
to  weep,  and  who  ever  and  anon  repeated,  with  most 
passionate  lamentations,  “ O,  friend  ! faithful  friend  !” 
Respecting  his  grief,  I passed  on,  marvelling  as  I went 
what  manner  of  man  he  had  been  who  slept  under  that 
stone.” — Letters  of  a Tourist. 


O,  FRIEND  ! whose  heart  the  grave  doth  shroud 
From  human  joy  or  woe, 

Know’st  thou  who  wanders  by  thy  tomb, 

With  footsteps  sad  and  slow  ? 

Know’st  thou  whose  brow  is  dark  with  grief? 

Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  ? 

Whose  restless  soul  is  sinking 
With  its  agony  of  fears  ? 

Whose  hope  hath  failed,  whose  star  hath  sunk, 
Whose  firmest  trust  deceived. 

Since,  leaning  on  thy  faithful  breast, 

He  loved  and  he  believed  ? 

*Tis  I ! — Return  and  comfort  me. 

For  old  remembrance  sake. — 


123 


THE  FAITHFUL  FRIEND. 

From  the  long  silence  of  the  tomb— 
The  cheerless  tomb — awake  ! 

I listen — all  is  still  as  death — 

No  welcome  step  is  nigh, — 

T call  thee,  but  thou  answerest  not 
The  grave  hath  no  reply  ! 

But  mournfully  the  strange  bright  sun 
Shines  on  thy  funeral  stone. 

And  sadly,  in  the  cypress  bough, 

The  wild  wind  makes  her  moan. 


When  we  were  young,  and  cheerfully 
The  promised  future  glow’d, 

^ I little  thought  to  stand  alone 

By  this  thy  last  abode  ; 

I little  thought,  in  early  days, 

0 generous  and  kind  1 

That  Tiiou,  the  first,  shouldst  quit  the  earth, 
And  leave  me,  wreck’d,  behind. 

Thine  was  the  pure  unjealous  love  ! 

1 know  they  told  us  then 
That  Genius’  gifts  divided  me 

From  dull  and  common  men  ; 

That  thou  wert  slow  to  science  ; 

That  the  chart  and  letter’d  page 
Had  in  them  no  deep  spell  whereby 
Thy  spirit  to  engage  ; 

But  rather  thou  wouldst  sail  thy  boat. 

Or  sound  thy  bugle  horn. 

Or  track  the  sportsman’s  triumph  through 
The  fields  of  waving  corn, 


m 


'M 


% 


THE  FAITHFUL  FRIEND, 

Than  o’er  the  pond’rous  histories 
Of  other  ages  bend, 

Or  dwell  upon  the  sweetest  page 
That  poet  ever  penn’d  : 

And  it  was  true  ! Our  minds  were  cast 
As  pleased  the  will  of  Heaven, 

And  different  powers  unto  me, 

And  unto  thee,  were  given  ! 

No  trick  of  talent  deck’d  thy  speech 
And  glorified  thy  youth, — 

Its  simple  spell  of  eloquence 
Lay  in  its  earnest  truth  ; 

Nor  was  the  gladsome  kindliness 
Which  brighten’d  on  thy  brow. 

The  beauty  which  in  fiction  wins 
Love's  fond  romantic  vow  ; 

But  gazing  on  thine  honest  face. 
Intelligently  bold. 

Oft  have  I doubted  of  the  gifts 
Which  men  so  precious  hold, — 

Wit,  learning,  wealth,  seem'd  overprized, 
Since  thou,  dear  friend,  couldst  be 
So  closely  knit  unto  my  heart 
By  thy  simplicity. 

The  worldly-wise  may  sneer  at  this, 

And  scorn  thee,  if  they  will, — 

Tiiy  judgment  was  not  sharpen’d  by 
The  cunning  of  their  skill ; 

No  deep  and  calculating  thoughts 
Lay  buried  in  thy  breast, 


126  THE  FAITHFUL  FEIEND. 

To  chill  and  vex  thy  honest  hean, 

And  startle  it  from  rest; 

No  dream  of  cold  philosophy, 

To  make  thee  doubt  and  sigh, 

And  fawn  and  flatter  half  thy  kind, 

And  pass  the  others  by  ! 

And  there  thou  best  forgotten — 

Thou  faithful  friend,  and  true — 

Thy  resting-place  beneath  the  cold 
Damp  shadow  of  the  yew  ; 

And  quietly  within  the  tomb’s 
Dark  precints  wert  thou  laid. 

As  a faded  leaf  unnoticed  drops 
Within  the  forest  shade. 

How  should  the  world  have  tears  for  thee  f 
The  world  hath  nothing  lost — 

No  parent’s  high  ambitious  hope 
Thy  early  death  hath  crost ; 

No  sculptured  falsehood  gives  to  fame 
Thy  monumental  stone, — 

From  the  glory  of  our  Senate-house, 

No  orator  is  gone  : 

Science  hath  lost  no  well-known  name,— 
No  soldier’s  heart  shall  bound, 

Linking  old  England’s  victories 
With  that  inglorious  sound  ; 

No  jealous  and  tomb-trampling  foe 
Shall  find  it  worth  his  while, 

With  a false  history  of  thy  acts, 

Thy  country  to  beguile ; 


THE  FAITHFUL  FKIEND- 

No  mercenary  hand  in  haste 
Prepare  the  letter’d  tome, 

And  publicly  reveal  the  fond 
Small  weaknesses  of  Home  ; 

Nor  some  vainglorious  friend  (who  yet 
Hath  lov’d  thee  to  the  last) 

Permit  all  men  to  buy  and  sell 
His  records  of  the  past ; 

Nor  give  thy  living  letters  up, 

Nor  print  thy  dying  words  ; 

Nor  sweep  with  sacrilegious  hand 
inflection’s  holy  chords  ; 

Nor  with  a frozen  after- thought 
Dissect  thy  generous  heart, 

And  count  each  pulse  that  bid  thy  blood 
Gush  with  a quicker  start. 

No!  Blest  Obscurity  was  thine  * 

In  sacred  darkness  dwells 
The  mem’ry  of  thy  last  fond  looks 
And  faltering  farewells  ; 

And  none  shall  drag  thy  actions  forth, 
For  Slander  or  for  Praise, 

To  that  broad  light  which  never  glowed 
Round  thy  unnoticed  days. 

At  times  a recollected  jest. 

Or  snatch  of  merry  song. 

Which  was  so  thhie,  that  still  to  thee 
Its  ringing  notes  belong. 

To  boon  companions  back  again 
Thy  image  may  recall, — 

But  lightly  sits  thy  memory, 


128  THE  FAITHFUL  FRIEND. 

Oh  Faithful  Friend,  on  all  ! 

The  old  house  still  hath  echoe«»  glad  § 
Tho’  silent  be  thy  voice, 

Thy  empty  place  at  bed  and  bo? 

Forbids  not  to  rejoice  I 
Still  with  its  white  and  gleaming  sail,. 

By  stranger’s  launch’d  to  float 
Across  the  blue  lake  in  the  sun, 

Glides  on  thy  little  boat ; 

Thy  steed  another  rider  backs, - 
Thy  dogs  new  masters  find, 

But  I, — I mourn  thy  absence  still 
Thou  generous  and  kind  : 

Since  f have  lost  thy  pleasant  smile. 
And  voice  of  ringing  mirth, 

A silence  and  a darkness  seems 
Come  down  upon  the  earth  ; 

A weight  sits  heavy  on  my  heart. 

And  clogs  my  weary  feet. 

For,  wander  where  I will,  thy  glance 
I never  more  shall  meet, 

I cannot  knit  my  soul  again  ; 

My  thoughts  are  wide  astray 
When  others  by  my  side  would  wdle 
An  hour  or  two  away  ; 

My  door  flings  wide  to  w^elcome  in 
Some  less  familiar  face. 

And  my  heart  struggles  hard  to  fill 
Thy  ever  vacant  place  ; 

But  all  in  vain  ! Dim  thoughts  of  thee 
Across  my  bosom  steal. 

And  still,  the  louder  mirth  around. 


The  lonelier  I feel ; 

Fea,  even  that  should  make  me  proud, 
The  laurel  wreath  of  Fame 
But.  brings  me  back  our  early  days, 

And  the  echo  of  thy  name  ; 

But  biings  me  back  thy  cheerful  smile, 
When  yet  ^careless  boy, 

Mine  was  the  toil,  but  thou  didst  share 
The  glory  and  the  joy  ; 

And  bright  across  the  awarded  prize 
Thy  kind  eye  answer’d  mine, 

As  full  of  triumph  and  delight 
As  though  that  prize  were  thine. 

^Tes  ! all  is  vain  ! I want  not  Wit, 

I want  not  Learning’s  power, 

I want  THY  hand,  I want  thy  smile 
To  pass  the  cheerless  hour  ; 

I want  thy  earnest,  honest  voice, 

Whose  comfort  never  fail’d  ; 

I want  thy  kindly  glance,  whose  light 
No  coldness  ever  veil’d  : 
t feel  at  every  turn  of  life 
Thy  loss  hath  left  me  lone, 

Vnd  I mourn  the  friend  of  boyhood’s  year« 
The  friend  for  ever  gone  ! 

9 


li. 


* Written  after  walking  with  Mr.  Rogers 


Mark’d — as  the  hours  should  be,  Fate  bids  us 
spend 

With  one  illustrious,  or  a cherish’d  friend — 
Rich  in  the  value  of  that  double  claim, 

Since  Fame  allots  the  friend  a Poet’s  name, — 
My  “ Winter’s  Walk”  asserts  its  right  to  live 
Amongst  the  brightest  thoughts  my  life  can  give 
And  leaves  a track  of  light  on  Memory’s  way 
Which  oft  shall  gild  the  future  Summer’s  day. 

Gleam’d  the  red  sun  athwart  the  misty  haze 
Which  veil’d  the  cold  earth  from  its  loving  gaze, 
Feeble  and  sad  as  Hope  in  Sorrow’s  hour, — 
Bui  lor  THY  soul  it  still  had  warmth  and  power  ; 
Not  to  its  cheerless  beauty  wert  thou  blind, 

To  the  keen  eye  of  thy  poetic  mind 
Beauty  still  lives,  tho’  nature’s  flow’rets  die, 
And  wintry  sunsets  fade  along  the  sky  ! 

And  naught  escaped  thee  as  we  stroll’d  along, 
Nor  changeful  ray,  nor  bird’s  faint  chirping  song; 
Bless’d  with  a fancy  easily  inspired, 

130 


THE  WINTEx^’s  WALK. 


All  was  beheld,  and  nothing  unadmired ; 

Not  one  of  all  God’s  blessings  giv’n  in  vain, 

F rom  the  dim  city  to  the  clouded  plain. 

And  many  an  anecdote  of  other  times, 

Good  earnest  deeds, — quaint  wit, — and  polished 
rhymes, — 

Many  a sweet  story  of  remembered  years 
Which  thrilled  the  listening  heart  with  unshed 
tears, — 

Unweariedly  thy  willing  tongue  rehearsed. 

And  made  the  hour  seem  brief  as  we  conversed. 

Ah  ! who  can  e’er  forget,  who  once  hath  heard. 
The  gentle  charm  that  dwells  in  every  word 
Of  thy  calm  converse  ? In  its  kind  allied 
To  some  fair  river’s  bright  abundant  tide, 
Whose  silver  gushing  current  onward  goes, 
Fluent  and  varying  ; yet  with  such  repose 
As  smiles  even  through  the  flashings  of  thy  wit. 
In  every  eddy  that  doth  ruflle  it. 

Who  can  forget,  who  at  thy  social  board 
Hath  sat, — and  seen  the  pictures  richly  stored, 
In  all  their  tints  of  glory  and  of  gloom, 
Brightening  the  precints  of  thy  quiet  room  ; 

With  busts  and  statues  full  of  that  deep  grace 
Which  modern  hands  have  lost  the  skill  to  trace, 
(Fragments  of  beauty— perfect  as  thy  song 
On  that  sweet  land  to  which  they  did  belong,) 
Th’  exact  and  classic  taste  by  thee  displayed  ; 
Not  with  a rich  man’s  idle  fond  parade, 

Not  with  the  pomp  of  some  vain  connoisseur 


'(£) 


132 


THE  winter’s  walk. 


Proud  cf  his  bargains,  of  his  judgment  sure, 

But  with  the  feelings  kind  and  sad,  of  one 
Who  thro’  far  countries  wandering  hath  gone, 
And  brought  away  dear  keepsakes,  to  remind 
His  heart  and  home  of  all  he  left  behind. 

But  wherefore  these,  in  feeble  rhyme  recall  ? 
Thy  taste,  thy  wit,  thy  verse,  are  known  to  all ; 
Such  things  are  for  the  World,  and  therefore 
doth 

The  World  speak  of  them;  loud,  and  nothing 
loth 

To  fancy  that  the  talent  stamped  by  Heaven 
Is  naught  unless  their  echoed  praise  be  given, 

A worthless  ore  not  yet  allowed  to  shine, 

A diamond  darkly  buried  in  its  mine. 

These  are  thy  daylight  qualities,  whereon 
Beams  the  full  lustre  of  their  garish  sun. 

And  the  keen  point  of  many  a famed  reply 
Is  what  they  would  not  “willingly  let  die.” 

But  by  a holier  light  thy  angel  reads 
The  unseen  records  of  more  gentle  deeds,— 
And  by  a holier  light  thy  angel  sees 
The  tear  oft  shed  for  humble  miseries, — 

The  alms  dropp’d  gently  in  the  beggar’s  hand, 
(Who  in  his  daily  poverty  doth  stand 
Watching  for  kindness  on  thy  pale  calm  brow. 
Ignorant  to  whom  he  breathes  his  grateful  vow.) 
Th’  indulgent  hour  of  kindness  stol’n  away 
From  the  free  leisure  of  thy  well-spent  day. 

For  some  poor  struggling  Son  of  Genius,  bent 
Under  the  weight  of  heart-sick  discontent ; 


THE  winter’s  walk.  133 

Whose  prayer  thou  hearest,  mindful  o the 
schemes 

Of  thine  own  youth; — the  hopes,  the  fever- 
dreams 

Of  Fame  and  Glory  which  seemed  hovering 
then, 

(Nor  only  seemed)  upon  thy  magic  pen  ; 

And  measuring  not  how  much  beneath  thine 
own 

Is  the  sick  mind  thus  pining  to  be  known, 

But  only  what  a wealth  of  hope  lies  hushed 
As  in  a grave, — when  men  like  these  are 
chrushed ! 

And  by  that  light’s  soft  radiance  I review 
Thy  unpretending  kindness,  calm  and  true. 

Not  to  me  only, — but  in  bitterest  hours 
To  one  whom  Heaven  endowed  with  varied 
flowers ; 

To  one  who  died,  e’er  yet  my  childish  heart 
Knew  what  Fate  meant,  or  Slander’s  fabled  dart ! 
Then  was  the  laurel  green  upon  his  brow. 

And  they  could  flatter  then,  who  judge  him 
now. 

Who,  when  the  fickle  breath  of  fortune  changed. 
With  equal  falsehood  held  their  love  estranged  ; 
Nay,  like  mean  wolves,  from  whelp-hood  vainly 
nurst. 

Tore  at  the  easy  hand  that  fed  them  first. 

Not  so  didst  THOU  the  ties  of  friendship  break — 
Not  so  didst  THOU  the  saddened  man  ibrsake ; 
And  when  at  length  he  laid  his  dying  head 


THE  REPRIEVE, 

On  the  hard  rest  of  his  neglected  bed, 

He  found, — CTho’  few  or  none  around  him  came 
Whom  he  had  toiled  for  in  his  hour  of  Fame  ; — 
Though  by  his  Prince,  unroyally  forgot. 

And  left  tc  struggle  with  his  altered  lot; — ) 

By  sorrow  weakened, — by  disease  unnerved, — 
Faithful  at  least  the  friend  he  had  not  served : 
For  the  same  voice  essayed  that  hour  to  cheer. 
Which  now  sounds  welcome  to  his  grandchild’s 
ear  ; 

And  the  same  hand,  to  aid  that  Life’s  decline, 
Whose  gentle  clasp  so  late  was  linked  in  mine  ! 


THE  REPRIEVE. 


Suggested  by  a beautiful  little  Picture  painted  by  J. 
R.  Herbert,  Esq.,  representing,  in  the  foreground,  a 
Woman  pleading  with  a Warrior,  and,  in  the  back 
ground,  preparations  for  an  Execution. 


A MOMENT  since,  lie  stood  unmoved — alone, 
Courage  and  thought  on  his  resolved  brow ; 
But  hope  is  quivering  in  the  broken  tone. 
Whose  biller  anguish  seems  to  shake  him 
now' : 

Her  light  foot  woke  no  echo  as  it  came. 

The  rustling  robe  her  sudden  swiftness  told  ; 
She  pleads  for  one  who  dies  a death  of  shame  ; 
She  pleads — for  love  and  agony  are  bold. 


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THE  REPRIEVE. 


“Oh! 


hear  me,  thou,  who  in  the  sunshine’s 
glare 

So  calmly  wakest  till  the  warning  bell 
Shall  of  the  closing  hour  of  Ais  despair 
In  gloomy  notes  of  muffled  triumph  tell. 

Let  him  not  die  ! Avenging  Heaven  is  just ; 

Thine,  a like  fate  in  after  years  fhay  be  : * 

Thy  forfeit  head  may  gasping  bite  the  dust. 
While  those  Lhou  lovest,  plead  in  vain  for  thee  ! 
Thou  sinilest  sternly  : thou  could’st  well  brave 
death ; 

Hast  braved  it  often  on  the  tented  field. 

So  fought  my  hero  on  th’  ensanguined  heath, 
With  desperate  strength,  that  knew  not  how 
to  yield : 

But  oh ! the  death  whose  punctual  hour  is  set, 
And  waited  for  mid  lingering  thoughts  of  pain  ; 

Where  no  excitement  bids  the  heart  forget, 
A.nd  skill  and  courage  are  alike  in  vain  ; 

Who  shallfind  strength  ioxlhat  ? — Ohl  man, 
to  whom 

Fate,  chance,  or  what  thou  wilt,  hath  given  this 
hour — 

Upon  whose  will  depends  his  dreaded  doom— 
Doth  it  not  awe  thee,  thinking  of  thy  power  ? 

In  the  wide  battle’s  hot  and  furious  rage. 
Where  the  mix’d  banners  flutter  to  and  fro. 
Where  all  alike  the  desperate  combat  wage. 
One  of  the  thousand  swords  may  pierce  him 
through  : 

But,  now,  kis  life  is  in  thy  single  hand  : 


136  THE  REPRIEVE. 

To  thee  the  strange  and  startling  power  h 
given — 

And  thou  shalr  answer  for  this  day’s  command 
When  ye  stand  face  to  face  in  God’s  own 
Heaven. 

Bear  with  me!  pardon  me  this  sudden  start ! 
My  words  am  bitter,  for  my  heart  is  sore  ! 

And  oh  I dark  soldier  of  the  iron  heart, 

Fain  would  I learn  the  speech  should  touch  thee 
more  ! 

He  hath  a mother — age  hath  dimm’d  her 
sight — 

But  when  his  quick  returning  step  comes  nigh, 
She  smiles,  as  though  she  saw  a sudden  light, 
And  turns  to  bless  him  with  a stiffled  sigh. 

When  to  her  arms  a lonely  wretch  I go. 

And  she  doth  ask  for  him,  the  true  and  brave. 
While  on  her  cheek  faint  smiles  of  welcome 
glow, 

How  shall  I answer  ‘ he  is  in  the  grave  !’ 

He  hath  a little  son — a mirthful  boy. 

Whose  coral  lips  with  ready  smiles  are  curl’d  ; 
Wilt  thou  quench  all  the  spring-time  of  hi^ 

And  leave  him  orphan  in  a friendless  world  ? 

Hast  thoit  no  children  ? — Do  no  visions  come, 
When  the  low  night-wind  through  the  poplsLj 
grieves — 

Echoes  of  farewell  voices — sounds  of  home— 
For  which  thy  busy  day  no  leisure  leaves  ? 
Some  one  doth  love  thee — some  one  thou  dos< 
love — 


THE  REPRIEVE. 


137 


(For  such  the  blessed  lot  of  all  on  earth,; 

Some  one  to  whom  thy  thoughts  oft  fondly 
rove, 

The  sharer  of  thy  sorrows  and  thy  mirth  ; 

Who  with  dim  weeping  eyes,  and  thoughts 
that  burn,  . 

Sees  thy  proud  form  lead  forth  th’  embattled  host ; 

To  whom  ‘a  victory’  speaks  of  thy  return-— 
And  ‘ a defeat’  means  only  thou  art  lost ! 

If  such  there  be,  (and  on  thy  helm- worn  brow 
Sternness,  not  cruelty,  doth  seem  to  reign,) 
Think  it  is  she,  who  kneels  before  thee  now, 
Her  heart  which  bursts  with  agony  of  pain. 

“ Hark! — ’Tis  the  warning  stroke — his  hour 
is  come — 

I hear  the  bell  slow  clanging  on  the  air — 

I hear  the  beating  of  the  muffled  drum — 
Thou  hast  a moment  yet  to  save  and  spare  ! 

Oh  ! when  returning  to  thy  native  land. 
Greeted  with  grateful  tears  and  loud  acclaim  ; 
While  gazing  on  thy  homeward  march  they 
stand. 

And  smiling  children  shout  thy  welcome  name  : 

How  wilt  thou  bear  the  joyous  village  chimes, 
Whose  ringing  peals  remind  thee  of  to-day — 
Will  not  my  image  haunt  thee  at  those  times  ? 
And  my  hoarse  desperate  voice  seem  yet  to 
pray  ? 

When  the  long  term  of  bloody  toil  is  past, 
And  the  hush’d  trumpet  calls  no  more  to  arms  — 
Will  not  his  death  thy  tranquil  brow  o’ercast, 


THE  FORSAKEN, 


And  rob  that  peaceful  hour  of  half  its  charms  ? 

When  thy  child’s  mother  bends  thy  lip  to 
press, 

And  her  true  hand  lies  clasp’d  within  thine 
own — 

Will  her  low  voice  have  perfect  power  to 
bless, 

Remembering  me,  the  widow’d  and  the  lone  ? 

When  they  embrace  thee — when  they  wel 
come  thee 

By  all  my  hopes  of  Heaven,  thy  brow  relents  ! 

Oh!  sign  the  paper — let  his  life  go  free — 

Give  it  me  quick  !” — 

“ What  ho ! Raise  her — the  woman  faints  !’* 


THE  FORSAKEN. 


Suggested  by  an  Italian  picture,  of  a dying  girl,  to  whom 
the  lute  is  being  played. 


It  is  the  music  of  her  native  land, — 

The  airs  she  used  to  love  in  happier  days  ; 
The  lute  is  struck  by  some  young  gentle  hand, 
To  soothe  her  spirit  with  remember’d  lays. 

But  her  sad  heart  is  wandering  from  the  notes. 
Her  ear  is  fill’d  with  an  imagined  strain ; 
Vainly  the  soften’d  music  round  her  floats, 

The  echo  it  awakes  is  all  of  pain  ! 


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THE  FORSAKEN. 


139 


The  echo  it  awakes,  is  of  a voice 
Which  never  more  her  weary  heait  shall 
cheer  ; 

Fain  would  she  banish  it,  but  hath  no  choice. 

Its  vanish’d  sound  still  haunts  her  shrinking 
ear, — 

Still  haunts  her  with  its  tones  of  joy  and  love, 

Its  memories  of  bitterness  and  wrong. 

Bidding  her  thoughts  thro*  various  changes 
rove, — 

Welcomes,  farewells,  and  snatches  of  wild 
song. 

Why  bring  her  music  ? She  had  half  forgot 
How  left,  how  lonely,  how  oppress’d  she  was  ; 

Why,  by  these  strains,  recal  her  former  lot. 

The  depth  of  all  her  suffering,  and  its  cause  ? 

Know  ye  not  what  a spell  there  is  in  sound  ? 
Know  ye  not  that  the  melody  words 

Is  nothing  to  the  power  that  wanders  round. 
Giving  vague  language  to  harmonious  chords  ? 

Oh  I keep  ye  silence  ! He  hath  sung  to  her 
And  from  that  hour — (faint  twilight,  sweet 
and  dim. 

When  the  low  breeze  scarce  made  the  branches 
stir) — 

Music  hath  been  a memory  of  him  ! 

Chords  which  the  wandering  fingers  scarcely 
touch 

When  they  would  seek  for  some  forgotten 
song,— 


140 


THE  FORSAKEJJ. 


Stray  notes  which  have  no  certain  meaning,  such 
As  careless  hands  unthinkingly  prolong, — 

Come  unto  her,  fraught  with  a vivid  dream 
Of  love,  in  ail  its  wild  and  passionate 
strength, — 

Of  sunsets,  glittering  on  the  purple  stream, — 
Of  shadows,  deepening  into  twilight  length, — 

Of  gentle  sounds,  when  the  warm  world  lay 
hush’d 

Beneath  the  soft  breath  of  the  evening  air, — 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  expectations  crush’d, 
By  one  long  certainty  of  blank  despair  I 

Bear  to  the  sick  man’s  couch  the  fiery  cup. 
Pledged  by  wild  feasters  in  their  riotous  hours, 
And  bid  his  parch’d  lips  drink  the  poison  up, 

As  tho’  its  foam  held  cool  refreshing  powers,- 

Lift  some  poor  wounded  wretch,  whose  writhing 
pain 

Finds  soothing  only  in  an  utter  rest. 

Forth  in  some  rude-made  litter,  to  regain 
Strength  for  his  limbs  and  vigor  for  his 
breast ; — 

But  soothe  ye  not  that  proud  forsaken  heart 
With  strains  whose  sweetness  maddens  as 
they  fall ; 

Untroubled  let  her  fe^verish  soul  depart — 

Not  long  shall  memory’s  power  its  might 
enthral ; 


THE  VISIONARY  PORTRAIT.  141 

Not  long, — tho’  balmy  be  the  summer’s  breath 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  its  golden  light, 

A shadowy  spirit  sits,  whose  name  is  death, 
And  turns,  what  was  all  beauty,  into  blight 

And  she,  before  whose  sad  and  dreaming  eye 
Visions  of  by-gone  days  are  sweeping  on, 

In  her  unfaded  youth  shall  drooping  die. 

Shut  from  the  glow  of  that  Italian  sun ; 

Then  let  the  organ’s  solemn  notes  prolong 
Their  glory  round  the  silence  of  her  grave. 
Then  let  the  choral  voices  swell  in  song 
And  echo  through  the  chancel  and  the  na\  e 

For  then  her  heart  shall  ache  not  at  the  sound. 
Then  the  faint  fever  of  her  life  shall  cease ; 
hlencc,  unbroken,  calm,  shall  reign  around. 
And  the  long  restless  shall  be  laid  at  peace. 


THE  VISIONARY  PORTRAIT 


As  by  his  lonely  hearth  he  sate. 

The  shadow  of  a welcome  dream 
Pass’d  o’er  his  heart, — disconsolate 
His  home  did  seem  ; 

Comfort  in  vain  was  spread  around, 
For  something  still  was  \vanting  found. 


142  THE  VISIONARY  PORTRAIT. 

Therefore  he  thought  of  one  who  might 
Forever  in  his  presence  slay  ; 

Whose  dream  should  be  of  him  by  night, 
Whose  smile  should  be  for  him  by  day  ; 
And  the  sweet  vision,  vague  and  far, 

Rose  on  hisTancy  like  a star. 

“ Let  her  be  young,  yet  not  a child, 
Whose  light  and  inexperienced  mirth 
Is  all  too  winged,  and  too  wild 
For  sober  earth, — 

Too  rainbow-like  such  mirth  appears, 

And  fades  away  in  misty  tears. 

Let  youth’s  fresh  rose  still  gently  bloon 
Upon  her  smooth  and  downy  cheek. 

Yet  let  a shadow,  not  of  gloom, 

But  soft  and  meek. 

Tell  that  some  sorrow  she  hath  known, 
Tho’  not  a sorrow  of  her  own. 

“ And  let  her  eyes  be  of  the  gray. 

The  soft  gray  of  the  brooding  dove, 

Full  of  the  sweet  and  tender  ray 
Of  modest  love ; 

For  fonder  shows  that  dreamy  hue 
Than  lustrous  black  or  heavenly  blue. 

“ Let  her  be  full  of  quiet  grace, 

No  sparkling  wit  with  sudden  glow 
B right’ ning  her  purely  chisell’d  face 
And  placid  brow  ; 


THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 

Not  radiant  to  the  stranger^ s eye, — 

A creature  easily  pars’d  by  ; 

“ But  who,  once  seen,  with  untold  pow'ei 
For  ever  haunts  the  yearnintj  heart, 
Raised  from  the  crowd  that  self-same  hour 
To  dwell  apart, 

All  sainted  and  enshrined  to  be 
The  idol  of  our  memory  ! 

And  oh  ! let  Mary  be  her  name — 

It  hath  a sweet  and  gentle  sound 
At  which  no  glories  dear  to  fame 
Come  crowding  round. 

But  which  the  dreaming  heart  beguiles 
With  holy  thoughts  and  household  smiles. 

With  peaceful  meetings,  welcomes  kind, 
And  love,  the  same  iji  joy  and  tears, 

And  gushing  intercourse  of  mind 
Thro’  faithful  years  ; 

Oh  ! dream  of  something  half  divine. 

Be  real — be  mortal — and  be  mine  !” 


THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 

Thou  ! whoso  impassion’d  face 
The  Painter  loves  to  trace, 

Theme  of  the  Sculptor’s  art  and  Poet’s  story- 
How  many  a wand’ring  thought 
I’hy  loveliness  hath  brought 
Warming  the  heart  with  its  imagined  glory  ! 


144 


THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 


Yet,  was  it  History’s  truth, 

'I'hat  tale  of  wasted  youth, 

Of  endless  grief,  and  Love  forsaken  pining? 
What  wert  thou,  thou  whose  woe 
The  old  traditions  show 
With  Fame’s  cold  light  around  thee  vainly 
shining  ? 

Didst  thou  inded  sit  there 
In  languid  lone  despair — 

Thy  harp  neglected  by  thee  idly  lying — 

Idiy  soft  and  earnest  gaze 
Watching  the  lingering  rays 
In  the  I'ar  west,  where  summer-day  was  dying— 

While  with  low  rustling  wings 
Among  the  quivering  strings 
The  murmuring  breeze  faint  melody  was  making 
As  though  it  wooed  thy  hand 
To  strike  with  new  command. 

Or  mourn’d  with  thee  because  thy  heart  was 
breaking  ? 

Didst  thou,  as  day  by  day 
Roll’d  heavily  away, 

And  left  thee  anxious,  nerveless,  and  dejected, 
Wandering  thro’  bowers  beloved — 

Roving  where  he  had  roved — 

Yearn  for  his  presence,  as  for  one  expected  ? 

Didst  thou,  with  fond  wild  eyes 
Fix’d  on  the  starry  skies, 


^ ^ "O' 


THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 

Wait  feverishly  for  each  new  day  to  waken — 
Trusting  some  glorious  morn 
Might  witness  his  return, 

Unwilling  to  believe  thyself  forsaken  ? 


And  when  conviction  came, 

Chilling  that  heart  of  flame, 

Didst  thou,  O saddest  of  earth’s  grieving 
daughters ! 

From  the  Leucadian  steep 
Dash,  with  a desperate  leap. 

And  hide  thyself  within  the  whelming  waters  ? 

Yea,  in  their  hollow  breast 
1 hy  heart  at  length  found  rest ! 

The  ever-rnoving  waves  above  thee  closing — 
The  w’inds,  whose  ruffling  sigh 
Swept  the  blue  waters  by. 

Disturb’d  thee  not ! — thou  wert  in  peace  re* 
posing ! 

Such  is  the  tale  they  tell  ! 

Vain  was  thy  beauty’s  spell — 

Vain  all  the  praise  thy  song  could  still  inspire 
Though  many  a happy  band 
Rung  with  less  skilful  hand 
The  borrowed  love-notes  of  thy  echoing  lyre. 

Fame,  to  thy  breaking  heart 
No  comfort  could  impart. 

In  vain  thy  brow  the  laurel  wreath  was  wearing; 
One  grief  and  one  alone 
Could  bow  thy  bright  head  down — 

Thou  wert  a woman,  and  wert  left  despairing! 


i 


r 


the  sense  of  beauty, 


Spirit!  who  over  this  our  mortal  Earth, 

Snot  some  way  dim. 

Thou  who  un^Tm^frora^ut  thy  radiant  wings 

DoSwer  down  light  o’er  mean  and  commor 
things ; 

And,  wandering  to  and  tro, 

Through  the  condemn’d  and  sinful  world  dost 

Hauntina’that  wilderness,  the  human  heart. 
With  gleams  of  glory  that  too  soon  depart, 
Gildintr  both  weed  and  flower  5 ^ . 

WhS^is  thy  birth  divine?  and  whence  th5 
mighty  power  ? 

The  Sculptor  owns  thee  ! On  his  high  pale  bro« 

Be  wild’ ring  images  are  pressing  now , 

Groups  whose  immortal  grace 
■Hi'S  rhisel  ne’er  shall  trace,  ^ 

Though  in  his  mind  the  fresh  creation  g ows, 
Hiorh  forms  of  godlike  strength, 

‘ Or  limbs  whose  languid  length 


146 


% 


sJ,  t, 


if 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY. 


147 


The  marble  fixes  in  a sweet  repose  ! 

A-t  thy  command, 

tfis  true  and  patient  hand 

Mould’s  the  dull  clay  to  Beauty’s  richest  line, 

Or  with  more  tedious  skill, 

Obedient  to  thy  will, 

By  touches  imperc(3ptable  and  fine, 

Works  slowly  day  by  day 
The  rough-hewn  block  away. 

Till  the  soft  shadow  of  the  bust’s  pale  smile 
Wakes  into  statue-life  and  pays  the  assiduous 
toil ! 

Thee,  the  young  Painter  knows, — whose  fervent 
eyes, 

O’er  the  blank  waste  of  canvass  fondly  bending, 
See  fast  within  its  magic  circle  rise 
Some  pictured  scene,  with  colors  softly  blend- 
ing,— 

Green  bowers  and  leafy  glades, 

The  old  Arcadian  shades. 

Where  thwarting  glimpses  of  the  sun  are  thrown. 
And  dancing  nymphs  and  shepherds  one  by  one 
Appear  to  bless  his  sight 
In  Fancy’s  glowing  light. 

Peopling  that  spot  of  green  Earth’s  flawery 
breast 

With  every  attitude  of  joy  and  rest. 

Lo  ! at  his  pencil’s  touch  steals  faintly  forth 
(Like  an  uprising  star  in  the  cold  north) 

Some  face  which  soon  shall  glow  with  beauty’s 
fire : 


148 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY. 


Dim  seems  the  sketch  to  those  who  stand  around, 
Dim  and  uncertain  as  an  echoed  sound, 

But  oh!  how  bright  to  him,  whose  hand  thou 
dost  inspire ! 

Thee,  also,  doth  the  dreaming  Poet  hail, 
Fond  comforter  of  many  a weary  day — 

When  through  the  clouds  his  Fancy’s  ear  can 
sail 

To  worlds  of  radiance  far,  how  far,  away  ! 

At  thy  clear  touch  (as  at  the  burst  of  light 
Which  Morning  shoots  along  the  purple  hills. 
Chasing  the  shadows  of  the  vanish’d  night. 

And  silvering  all  the  darkly  gushing  rills, 

Giving  each  waking  blossom,  gemm’d  with  dew, 
Its  bright  and  proper  hue  ;) — 

He  suddenly  beholds  the  chequered  face 
Of  this  old  world  in  its  young  Eden  grace  ! 
Disease,  and  want,  and, sin,  and  pain,  are  not^ 
Nor  homely  and  familiar  things : — man’s  lot 
Is  like  aspirations — bright  and  high ; 

And  even  in  the  haunting  thought  that  man 
must  die. 

Ills  dream  so  changes  from  its  fearful  strife, 
Death  seems  but  fainting  into  purer  life  ! 

Nor  only  these  thy  presence  woo, 

The  less  inspired  own  thee  too  ! 

Thou  hast  thy  tranquil  source 

In  the  deep  well-springs  of  the  human  heart, 

And  gushest  wdth  sweet  force 

When  most  imprison’d  ; causing  tears  to  start 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY. 


149 


In  the  worn  citizen’s  o’erwearied  eye, 

As,  with  a sigh, 

At  the  bright  close  of  some  rare  holiday, 

He  sees  the  branches  wave,  the  waters  play— 
And  hears  the  clock’s  far  distant  mellow  chime 
Warn  him  a busier  world  reclaims  his  time  ! 

Thee,  Childhood’s  heart  confesses, — when 
he  sees 

The  heavy  rose-bud  crimson  in  the  breeze. 
When  the  red  coral  wins  his  eager  gaze. 

Or  the  warm  sunbeam  dazzles  with  its  rays. 
Thee,  through  his  varied  hours  of  rapid  joy. 

The  eager  Boy, — 

Who  wild  across  the  grassy  meadow  springs. 
And  siill  with  sparkling  eyes 
Pursues  the  uncertain  prize. 

Lured  by  the  velvet  glory  of  its  wings  ! 

And  so  from  youth  to  age — yea,  till  the  end — 
An  unforsaking,  unforgetting  friend, 

Thou  hoverest  round  us  ! And  when  all  is  o’er. 
And  Earth’s  most  loved  illusions  please  no  more? 
Thou  stealest  gently  to  the  couch  of  Death; 
There,  while  the  lagging  breath 
Comes  faint  and  fitfully,  to  usher  nigh 
Consoling  visions  from  thy  native  sky. 

Making  it  sweet  to  die  ! 

The  sick  man’s  ears  are  faint — his  eyes  are  dim — 
But  his  heart  listens  to  the  Heavenward  hymn. 
And  his  soul  sees — in  lieu  of  that  sad  band, 

Whc  come  with  mournful  tread 


150 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTT. 


To  kneel  about  his  bed, — 

God’s  white-robed  angels,  who  around  him  stand, 
And  waive  his  Spirit  to  “ the  Better  Land  I” 

So,  living, — dying, — still  our  hearts  pursue 
That  loveliness  which  never  met  our  view  ; 

Still  to  the  last  the  ruling  thought  will  reign. 
Nor  deem  one  feeling  given — was  giv’n  iti  vam  / 
For  it  may  be,  our  banish’d  souls  recall 
In  this,  their  earthly  thrall, 

(With  the  sick  dreams  of  exiles.)  that  far  world 
Whence  angels  once  were  hurl’d  ; 

Or  it  may  be,  a faint  and  trembling  sense, 
Vague,  as  permitted  by  Omnipotence, 
P'oreshows  the  immortal  radiance  round  us  shed, 
When  the  Imperfect  shall  be  perfected  ! 

Like  the  chain’d  eagle  in  his  fetter’d  might. 
Straining  upon  the  Heavens  his  wistful  sight, 
"Who  toward  the  upward  glory  fondly  springs 
With  all  the  vain  strength  of  his  shivering 
wings, — 

So  chain'd  to  earth,  and  baffled — yet  so  fond 
Of  the  pure  sky  which  lies  so  far  beyond, 

Wc  make  the  attempt  to  soar  in  many  a thought 
Of  Beauty  born,  and  into  Beauty  wrought; 
Dimly  we  struggle  onw’ards: — who  shall  say 
Which  gliinmeniig  fight  leads  nearest  to  the  day  ? 


THE  MOTHER’S  HEART. 


When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond, 
My  eldest-born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  trea- 
sure. 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure  j 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 
And  natural  piety  that  lean’d  to  Heaven  i 
Wrung  by  a harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 

Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given— 
Obedient — easy  to  be  reconciled — 

A.nd  meekly  cheerful — such  wert  thou,  my  child  ! 

Hot  willing  to  be  left ; still  by  my  side 
Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was 
dying 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn  ; but  pleased  to  glide 
Thro’  the  dark  room  where  I was  sadly  lying, 
Dr  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a sitter  meek. 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 

151 


152 


THE  mother’s  heart. 


O boy  ! of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth’s  fragile  idols  ; like  a tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness, — prone  to  fade, — 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower, — 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to 
bind. 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind ! 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love  ; — bold  in  thy  glee, 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing. 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free, 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a bird’s  wing  glanc- 

ing, 

Full  of  a wild  and  irrepre-ssib'le  mirth. 

Like  a young  sunbeam  to  the  gladden’d  earth  ! 

Thine  was  the  shout ! the  song  ! the  burst  of  joy  ! 
Which  sweet  from  childhood’s  rosy  lip 
resoundeth ; 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief 
reboundeth ; 

And  many  a mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply. 

Lurk’d  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye  ! 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warm- 
ing; 

The  coaxing  smile  ; — the  frequent  soft  caress  ; — 
The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming ! 

A gain  my  heart  a new  affection  found. 

But  thought  tliat  love  with  thee  had  reached  its 
bound. 


THE  mother’s  heart. 


153 


At  length  thotj  earnest : thou,  the  last  and  least ; 
Nick-named  “ The  Emperor”  by  thy  laugh- 
ing brothers, 

Because  a haughty  spirit  swell’d  thy  breast, 
And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the 
others  ; 

Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile  ; 

And  oh  ! most  like  a regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming  ! 
Fair  shoulders — curling  lip — and  dauntless 
brow — 

Fit  for  the  world’s  strife,  not  for  Poet’s 
dreaming  : 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 

And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  ! Yet  each  succeeding  claim, 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 
Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 

Nor  injured  either,  by  this  love’s  comparing, 
Nor  stole  a fraction  for  the  newer  call — 

But  in  the  Mother’s  Heart,  found  room  for  all ' 


MAY-DAY,  1837. 


May-day  is  come! — While  yet  the  unwilling 
Spring 

C hecks  with  capricious  frown  the  opening  year, 

Onward,  where  bleak  winds  have  been  whisper- 
ing, 

The  punctual  Hours  their  ancient  playmate 
bear ; 

But  those  who  long  have  look'd  for  thee,  stand 

by, 

Like  men  who  welcome  back  a friend  bereaved, 

And  cannot  smile,  because  his  sadden’d  eye 
Doth  mutely  tell  them  how  his  soul  is  grieved. 
Even  thus  we  greet  thine  alter’d  face  to-day. 
Thou  friend  in  mourning  garb  ! — chill,  mel- 
ancholy May  ! 

To  thee  the  first  and  readiest  smiles  of  Earth, 
Lovely  with  life  renew’d,  were  always 
given, — 

To  thee  belong’d  the  sunshine  and  the  mirth 
Which  bathed  all  Nature  with  a glow  from 
Heaven, — 

To  thee  the  joy  of  Childhood’s  earnest  heart, 

154 


'•0 


m 


to. 


MAY-DAY, 

His  shouting  song,  and  light  elastic  tread, 

His  brows  high  arch’d,  and  laughing  lips  apart, 
Bright  as  the  wreath  that  bound  his  rosy 
head  : — 

Thou  wen  of  innocence  the  holiday, 

Thou  garlanded  and  glad  1 — thou  ever- 
blooming  May  ! 

Yet  will  I not  reproach  thee  for  thy  change  : 

Closed  be  the  flower,  and  leafless  be  the  tree  ! 
Smile  not  as  thou  wert  wont ; but  sad,  and 
strange, 

And  joyless,  let  thy  tardy  coming  be  ! 

So  shall  I miss  those  infant  voices  less. 

Calling  each  other  through  the  garden  bowers. 
Meeting  and  parting  in  wild  happiness, 

Leading  a light  dance  thro’  the  sunny  hours ; 

Those  little  mirthful  hearts,  who,  far  away, 
Breathe,  amid  cloud-capp’d  hills,,  a yet  more 
wintry  May  ! 

Ah,  boys  ! your  play-ground  is  a desert  spot. 
Revisited  alone,  and  bathed  with  tears ; 

And  where  ye  pass  your  May-day,  knoweth  not 
The  mother  who  hath  watch’d  your  dawning 
years. 

Mine  is  no  more  the  joy  to  see  ye  come. 

And  deem  each  step  hath  some  peculiar  grace  ! 
Yours  is  no  more  the  mother’s  welcome  home. 
Smiling  at  each  beloved,  familiar  face! 

And  I am  thankful  that  this  dreary  May 
Recalls  not,  save  by  name,  that  brighter, 
happier  day ! 


-A 


% '5^ 


> 


156 


TO  THE  LADY  H.  O. 


I should  have  felt  more  mock’d,  if  there  had  been 
More  peace  and  sunshine  round  me, — had  iho 
grove, 

Clad  in  transparent  leaves  of  tender  green, 

Been  full  of  murm’ring  sounds  of  Nature’ j 
love ; 

I should  have  wept  more  bitterly  beneath 
The  frail  laburnum  trees,  so  faint  and  fair, — 

I should  have  sicken’d  at  the  lilac’s  breath, 
Thrown  by  the  warm  sun  on  the  silent  air  ; 
But  now,  with  stern  regret  I wend  my  way — 
I know  thee  not, — thou  cold  and  unfamiliar 
May ! 

« 

TO  THE  LADY  H.  O. 


Come  o’er  the  green  hills  to  the  sunny  sea ! 

The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands. 
Where  shells  unknown  to  England,  fair  anci 
free. 

Lie  brightly^scatter’d  on  the  gleaming  sands. 
There,  ’midst  the  hush  of  slumbering  ocean’s 
roar. 

We’ll  sit  and  watch  the  silver-tissued  waves 
Creep  languidly  along  the  basking  shore. 

And  kiss  thy  gentle  feet,  like  Eastern  slaves. 

And  we  will  take  some  volume  of  our  choice. 
Full  of  a quiet  poetry  of  thought. 

And  thou  shall  read  me,  with  thy  plaintive  voice. 


TO  THE  LADY  H. 

Lines  which  some  gifted  mind  hath  sweetly 
wrought ; 

And  I will  listen,  gazing  on  thy  face, 

(Pale  as  some  cameo  on  the  Italian  shell !) 

Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space. 

Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell. 

Come  forth ! The  sun  hath  flung  on  Thetis* 
breast 

The.  glittering  tresses  of  his  golden  hair  ; 

All  things  are  heavy  with  a noonday  rest, 

And  floating  sea-birds  leave  the  slirless  air. 

Against  the  sky,  in  outlines  clear  and  rude, 

The  cleft  rocks  stand,  while  sunbeams  slant 
between  ; 

And  lulling  winds  are  murmuring  thro’  tho  wood, 
Which  skirts  the  bright  bay  with  its  fringe  of 
green. 

Come  forth  ! All  motion  is  so  gentle  now, 

It  seems  thy  step  alone  should  walk  the 
earth, — 

Thy  voice  alone,  the  **  ever  soft  and  low,” 
Wake  the  far-haunting  echoes  into  birth. 

Too  wild  would  be  Love’s  passionate  store  of 
hope. 

Unmeet  the  influence  of  his  changelul  power, — 

Ours  be  companionship,  whose  gentle  scope 
Hath  charm  enough  for  such  a tranquil  hour. 

And  slowly,  idly  wandering,  we  will  roam, 
Where  the  high  cliffs  shall  give  us  an  ample 
shade ; 


TO  THE  LADY  H.  O. 

And  watch  the  glassy  waves,  whose  wrathful 
foam 

Hath  power  to  make  the  seaman’s  heart  afraid. 

Seek  thou  no  veil  to  shroud  thy  soft  brown 
hair, — 

Wrap  thou  no  mantel  round  thy  graceful  form  ; 

The  cloudless  sky  smiles  forth  as  still  and  fair, 
As  tho’  earth  ne’er  could  know  another  storm. 

Come  ! Let  not  listless  sadness  make  delay, — 
Beneath  Heaven’s  light  that  sadness  will 
depart ; 

And  as  we  wander  on  our  shoreward  way, 

A strange,  sweet  peace  shall  enter  in  thine 
heart. 

We  will  not  weep,  nor  talk  of  vanish’d  years, 
When,  link  by  link,  Hope’s  glittering  chain 
was  riven  : 

Those  who  are  dead,  shall  claim  from  love  no 
tears, — 

Those  who  have  injured  us,  shall  be  forgiven. 

Few  have  my  summers  been,  and  fewer  thine  ; — 
Youth  blighted  is  the  weary  lot  of  both  ; 

To  both,  all  lonely  shows  our  life’s  decline, 
Both  with  old  friends  and  ties  have  waxed 
wroth. 

But  yet  we  will  not  weep  ! The  breathless  calm 
Which  lulls  the  golden  earth,  and  wide  blue 
sea, 

Shall  pour  into  our  souls  mysterious  balm. 

And  fill  us  with  its  own  tranquility. 


W e will  not  mar  the  scene — we  will  not  look 
To  the  veil’d  future,  or  the  shadowy  past ; 
Seal’d  up  shall  be  sad  Memory’s  open  book, 
And  childhood’s  idleness  return  at  last ! 

Joy,  with  his  restless,  ever-fluttering  wings, 
And  Hope,  his  gentle  brother, — allshallcease  : 
Like  weary  hinds  that  seek  the  desert  springs. 
Our  one  sole  feeling  shall  be  peace — deep 
peace ! 


THE  FALLEN  LEAVES. 


We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 
Young  children  at  our  play, 

And  laugh  to  see  the  yellow  things 
Go  rustling  on  their  way : 

Right  merrily  we  hunt  them  down, 
fl’he  buiumn  winds  and  we. 

Nor  pause  to  gaze  where  snow-drifts  lie, 
Or  sunbeams  gild  the  tree  ; 

With  dancing  feet  we  leap  along 

Where  wither’d  boughs  are  strown  , 
Nor  past  nor  future  checks  our  song— 
The  present  is  our  own. 


We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 
In  youth’s  enchanted  spring— 
When  Hope  (who  wearies  at  the  last) 


Ife 


160 


FALLEN  LEAVES. 


First  spreads  her  eagle  wing. 

We  tread  with  steps  of  conscious  strength 
Beneath  the  leafless  trees, 

And  the  color  kindles  in  our  cheek 
As  blows  the  winter  breeze  ; 

While,  gazing  towards  the  cold  gray  sky, 
Clouded  with  snow  and  rain. 

We  wish  the  old  year  all  past  by. 

And  the  young  spring  come  again. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 
In  manhood’s  haughty  prime — 

When  first  our  pausing  hearts  begin 
To  love  “ the  olden  time 
And,  as  we  gaze,  we  sigh  to  think 
How  many  a year  hath  pass'd 
Since  ’neath  those  cold  and  faded  trees 
Our  footsteps  wander’d  last ; 

And  old  companions — now  perchance 
Estranged,  forgot,  or  dead — 

Come  round  us,  as  those  autumn  leave?* 
Are  crush’d  beneath  our  tread. 


We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 
In  our  own  autumn  day — 

And,  toit'ring  on  with  feeble  steps, 
Pursue  our  cheerless  way. 

We  look  not  back — too  long  ago 
Hath  all  we  loved  been  lost ; 

Nor  forward — for  we  may  not  live 
To  see  our  new  hope  cross’d  : 

But  on  we  go— the  sun’s  faint  beam 


% 


THE  AUTUMN  WIND. 

161 

A feeble  warmth  imparts — 

Childhood  without  its  joy  returns- 

The  present  fills  our  hearts  ! 

THE  AUTUMN  WIND. 


Hush,  moaning  autumn  wind  ! be  still,  be  still ! 

Thy  grieving  voice  forbiddeih  hearts  to  rest ; 
We  hear  thee  sweeping  down  the  lonely  hill, 
And  mournful  thoughts  crowd  o’er  the  human 
breast, 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  us,  with  thy  voice  unkind, 
Sadd’ning  the  eaKh?  Hush,  moaning  autumn 
wind  ! 

Toss  not  the  branching  trees  so  wildly  high. 
Filling  the  forest  with  thy  dreary  sound  : 
Without  aid  the  hues  of  summer  die, 

And  the  sear  leaves  fall  scatter’d  to  the  ground. 
Thou  dost  but  hasten,  needlessly  unkind, 

The  winter’s  task,  thou  moaning  autumn  wind  ! 


Sweep  not  through  Ocean’s  caves  with  hollow 
roar. 

Driving"  our  fair  ships  to  some  rock-bound 
strand  ! 

While  the  vex’d  sea  foams  wrathful  to  the  shore, 
The  seaman’s  wife  looks  shuddering  from  the 
land, 


11 


162 


THE  AUTUMN  WIND. 


And  widow’d  hearts  for  many  a year  shall  find 
Death  in  thy  voice,  thou  moaning  autumn  wind  I 

Round  our  calm  dwellings,  when  our  hearths 
are  gay, 

Roam  not,  oh  howling  Spirit  of  Despair! 

As  tho’  thou  wert  a creature  seeking  prey, 

And  where  the  land  look’d  richest,  found  it 
there. 

We  have  enough  of  memories  unkind, 

Without  thy  voice,  thou  moaning  autumn  wind  ! 

Thee  the  sad  mourner  lists,  and  turns  to  weep, 
In  the  blank  silence  of  her  lonely  home  ; 

The  sick  man  hears,  and  starts  from  broken  sleep, 
And  the  night-wanderer  sighs — compell’d  to 
roam  ; 

While  the  poor  shiver,  for  their  huts  unkind 
Bar  thee  not  out,  thou  searching  autumn  wind  ! 

Back  to  the  barren  hill  and  lonely  glen  ! 

Here  let  the  wandering  of  thy  echoes  cease  ; 
Sadly  thou  soundest  to  the  hearts  of  men, — 
Hush  thy  wild  voice,  and  let  the  earth  have 
peace  ; 

Or,  if  no  chain  thy  restless  will  can  bind, 

Sweep  thro,  the  desert,  moaning  autumn  wind ! 


THE  TRYST. 


I WENT,  alone,  to  the  old  familiar  place 
Where  we  often  met, — 

When  the  twilight  soften’d  thy  bright  and  radi- 
ant face 

And  the  sun  had  set. 

All  things  around  seem’d  whispering  of  the  past, 
With  thine  image  blent — 

Even  the  changeful  spray  which  the  torrent  cast 
As  it  downward  went ! 

I stood  and  gazed  with  a sad  and  heavy  eye 
On  the  waterfall — 

And  with  a shouting  voice  of  agony 
On  thy  name  did  call ! 

With  a yearning  hope,  from  my  wrung  and 
aching  heart 
I call’d  on  thee — 

And  the  lonely  echoes  from  the  rocks  above 
They  answer’d  me  ! 

Glad  and  familiar  as  a household  word 
Was  that  cherish’d  name — 

But  in  that  grieving  hour,  faintly  heard, 

’Twas  not  the  same  ! 


163 


164  THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS. 

Solemn  and  sad,  with  a distant  knelling  cry, 

On  my  heart  it  fell — 

*Twas  as  if  the  word  “ Welcome”  had  been 
answer’d  by 

The  word  “ Farewell  I” 


THF  BANNER  OF  THE  COVEN- 
ANTERS. 


At  the  Mareschal  College  at  Aberdeen,  among  other 
valuable  curiosities,  they  show  one  of  the  banners  for- 
merly belonging  to  the  Covenanters ; it  is  of  white 
silk,  with  the  motto,  “Spe  Expecto,”  in  red  letters; 
and  underneath,  the  English  inscription,  “ For  Reli- 
gion.  King,  and  Kingdoms.”  The  banner  is  much  torn, 
but  otherwise  in  good  preservation. 


Here,  where  the  rain-drops  may  not  fall. 
The  sunshine  doth  not  play, 

Where  the  unfelt  and  distant  breeze 
In  whispers  dies  away  ; 

Here,  where  the  stranger  paces  slow 
Along  the  silent  halls. 

Why  mutely  art  thou  hanging  thus 
Against  the  massive  walls  ? 

Thou,  that  hast  seen  blood  shed  for  thee— 
That  midst  the  battle-tide 
Hast  faintly  lit  the  soldier’s  eye 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS  165 

With  triumphs  ere  he  died  ; 

Bright  banner,  which  hath  witness’d  oft 
The  struggles  of  the  free, 

Emblem  of  proud  and  hol)^  hope, 

Is  this  a place  for  thee  ? 

Wake  ! wave  aloft,  thou  banner ! 

Let  every  snowy  fold 
Float  on  our  wild,  unconquer’d  hills, 

As  in  the  days  of  old : 

Hang  out,  and  give  again  to  Death 
A glory  and  a charm, 

Where  Heaven’s  pure  dew  may  freshen  theOi 
And  Heaven’s  pure  sunshine  warm. 

Wake,  wave  aloft ! I hear  the  silk 
Low  rustling  on  the  breeze, 

Which  whistles  through  the  lofty  fir. 

And  bends  the  birchen  trees ; 

I hear  the  tread  of  warriors  arm’d 
To  conquer  or  to  die  ; 

Their  bed  or  bier  the  heathery  hill. 

Their  canopy  the  sky. 

What,  what  is  life  or  death  to  them  ? 

They  only  feel  and  know 
Freedom  is  to  be  struggled  for, 

With  an  unworthy  foe — 

Their  homes — their  hearths — the  all  for  which 
Their  fathers,  too,  have  fought. 

And  liberty  to  breathe  the  prayers 
Their  cradled  lips  were  taught. 


166  THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS. 

On,  on  they  rush — like  mountain  streams 
Resistlessly  they  sweep — 

On ! those  who  live  are  heroes  now' — 

And  martyrs  those  who  sleep  ! 

While  still  the  snow-white  Banner  waves 
Above  the  field  of  strife, 

With  a proud  triumph,  as  it  were 
A thing  of  soul  and  life. 

They  stand — they  bleed — they  fall ! they  make 
One  brief  and  breathless  pause, 

And  gaze  with  fading  eyes  upon 
The  standard  of  their  cause  ; — 

Again  they  brave  the  strife  of  death, 

Again  each  weary  limb 
Faintly  obeys  the  warrior  soul, 

Tho’  earth’s  best  hopes  grow  dim; — 

The  mountain-rills  are  red  with  blood, 

The  pure  and  quiet  sky 
Rings  with  the  shouts  of  those  who  win, 

The  groans  of  those  who  die  ; 

Taken — re-taken — raised  again, 

But  soil’d  with  clay  and  gore. 

Heavily,  on  the  wdld  free  breeze. 

That  Banner  floats  once  more. 

I hear  the  wail  of  wmmen  now  : 

The  dreadful  day  is  done  : 

God’s  creatures  wait  to  strive  and  siay 
Until  to-morrow’s  sun  ; 

I hear  the  heavy  breathing  of 
The  weary  ones  who  sleep, 


XHE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS. 

The  deaih-sob  and  the  dying  word, 

“ The  voice  of  them  that  weep 
The  half-choked  grief  of  those  who,  while 
They  stiflQ  back  their  breath, 

Scarce  knew  if  what  they  watch  be  hush’d 
In  slumber  or  in  death  ; 

While  mournfully,  as  if  it  knew 
And  felt  for  their  despair. 

The  moon-lit  Banner  flaps  and  falls 
Upon  the  midnight  air. 

Morning  ! the  glad  and  glorious  light ! 

The  waking  of  God’s  earth. 

Which  rouses  men  to  stain  with  gor,e 
The  soil  that  gave  them  birth. 

In  the  still  sunshine  sleeps  the  hill, 

The  stream,  the  distant  town  ; 

In  the  still  sunshine — clogg’d  and  stifT — 

The  battle-flag  hangs  down. 

Peace  is  in  Heaven,  and  Heaven’s  good  gifts, 
But  war  is  amongst  men — 

Red  blood  is  pouring  on  the  hill, 

Wild  shouts  are  in  the  glen; 

’Tis  past — they  sink,  they  bleed,  they  fly— 
That  faint,  enfeebled  host, 

Right  is  not  might — the  Banner-flag, 

The  victory,  are  lost ! 

Heaven’s  dew  hath  drunk  the  crimson  drops 
Which  on  the  heather  lay, 

The  rills  that  were  so  red  with  gore, 


163  THE  BANNER  OF  THE  COVENANTERS. 

Go  sparkling  on  tlieir  w^ay ; 

The  limbs  that  fought,  the  hearts  that  swellM, 
Are  crumbled  into  dust, 

The  souls  which  strove  are  gone  to  meet 
The  spirits  of  the  just ; 

Cut  that  frail  silken  flag,  for  which, 

And  under  which,  they  fought, 

(And  which  e’en  now  retains  its  j)0wer 
Upon  the  soul  of  thought,) 

Survives — a tatter’d,  senseless  thing — 

To  meet  the  curious  eye. 

And  wake  a momentary  dream 
Of  hopes  and  days  gone  by. 

A momentary  dream  ! oh  ! not 
For  one  poor  transient  hour, 

Not  for  a brief  and  hurried  day 
That  flag  exerts  its  power ; 

F ull  flashing  on  our  dormant  souls 
The  firm  conviction  comes. 

That  what  our  fathers  did  for  theirSy 
We  could  do  for  our  homes. 

We,  too,  could  brave  the  giant  arm 
That  seeks  to  chain  each  word. 

And  rule  what  form  of  prayer  alone 
Shall  by  our  God  be  heard : 

We,  too,  in  triumph  or  defeat, 

Could  drain  our  heart’s  best  veins. 

While  the  good  old  cause  of  Liberty 
For  Church  and  State  remains! 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED. 


It  was  a Highland  chieftain’s  son 
Gazed  sadly  from  the  hill : 

And  they  saw  him  shrink  from  the  autumn 
wind, 

As  its  blast  came  keen  and  chill. 

His  stately  mother  saw, — and  spoke 
With  the  heartless  voice  of  pride  ; 

“ ’T  is  well  I have  a stouter  son 
The  border  wars  to  ride.” 

His  jealous  brother  saw,  and  stood, 
Red-hair’d,  and  fierce,  and  tall. 

Muttering  low  words  of  fiendish  hope 
To  be  the  lord  of  all. 

But  sickly  Allan  heard  them  not, 

As  he  look’d  o’er  land  and  lea ; 

He  was  thinking  of  the  sunny  climes 
That  lie  beyond  the  sea. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  native  iand 
Whose  breeze  he  could  not  bear, 


169 


170  THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED. 

Whose  wild  free  beauty  he  must  leave, 

To  breath  a warmer  air. 

He  was  dreaming  of  his  childhood’s  haunts, 
And  his  grey-hair’d  father’s  praise  ! 

And  the  chance  of  death  which  hung  so  neas 
And  darken’d  his  young  days. 

So  he  turn’d,  and  bade  them  both  farewell, 
With  a calm  and  mournful  smile; 

And  he  spoke  of  dwelling  far  away. 

But  only  for  awhile. 

And  if  a pang  of  bitter  grief 
Shot  wildly  through  his  heart, 

No  man  heard  Allan  Douglass  sigh, 

Nor  saw  the  tear-drop  start : 

For  he  left  in  Scotland  none  who  cared 
If  e’er  he  should  return, 

In  castle  hall,  or  cottage  low. 

By  river  or  by  burn. 

Only  upon  the  heather  brae 
His  quivering  lip  he  press’d  ; 

And  clasp’d  the  senseless  birchen  tree. 

And  strain’d  it  to  his  breast ; 

Because  the  human  heart  is  full 
Of  love  that  must  be  given. 

However  check’d,  estranged,  and  chill’d, 

To  something  under  Heaven. 


ft 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED. 

And  these  things  had  been  friends  to  him 
Thro’  a life  of  lonely  hours — 

The  blue  lake,  and  the  waving  birch, 
And  the  low  broom’s  scented  flowers. 


Twice  had  the  snow  been  on  the  hills, 
And  twice  the  soft  spring  rain, 
When  Allan  Douglass  bent  his  way 
To  his  native  land  again. 


More  healthful  glow’d  his  hollow 'cheek, 
His  step  was  firm  and  free. 

And  he  brought  a fair  Italian  girl. 

His  bonny  bride  to  be. 

But  darkly  sneer’d  his  brother  cold. 
When  he  saw  that  maiden  fair, 

“ Is  a foreign  minion  come  to  wed 
The  Highland  chieftain’s  heir  ?” 

And  darkly  gloom’d  the  mother’s  brow 
As  she  said,  “Am  I so  old. 

That  a stranger  must  so  soon  come  here 
The  castle  keys  to  hold  ?” 


•yr 


Then  spoke  the  young  Italian  girl 

With  a sweet  and  modest  grace, 

As  she  lifted  up  her  soft  black  eyes 

And  look’d  them  in  the  face ; 

If/f 
Iff  j 

“ A stranger  and  an  orphan  comes 

To  Allan’s  native  land. 

W# 

■ b 

172  THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYEI. 

And  she  needs  the  mother’s  welcome  smile, 
And  the  brother’s  friendly  hand. 

“ Be  thine ! oh,  stately  lady — thine — 

The  rule  that  thou  dost  crave, 

For  Allan’s  love  is  all  I earn’d, 

And  all  I seek  to  have. 

“And  trust  me,  brother,  tho’  my  words 
In  foreign  accents  fall, 

The  heart  is  of  no  country  born. 

And  my  heart  will  love  you  alV' 

But  vain  the  music  of  her  tongue 
Against  the  hate  they  bore ; 

And  when  a babe  her  love  had  bless’d 
They  hated  her  the  more. 

They  hated  her  the  more  because 
That  babe  must  be  the  heir. 

And  his  dark  and  lovely  eyes  at  times 
His  mother’s  look  would  bear. 

But  lo!  the  keen  cold  winter  came 
With  many  a bitter  blast: 

It  pierc’d  thro’  sickly  Allan’s  frame, 

He  droop’d  and  died  at  last ! 

Oh ! mournfully  at  early  morn 
That  young  wife  sat  and  wept, — 

And  mournfully,  when  day  was  done. 

To  her  widow’d  couch  she  crept,— 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED.  173 

And  mournfully  at  noon  she  rock’d 
The  baby  on  her  knee  ; 

“ There  is  no  pity  in  their  hearts, 

My  child,  for  thee  and  me. 

“ There  was  no  pity  in  their  hearts 
For  him  who  is  at  rest : 

How  should  they  feel  for  his  young  son 
Who  slumbers  at  my  breast?” 

The  red-hair’d  brother  saw  her  tears. 

And  said,  “ Nay,  cease  thy  moan — 

Come  forth  into  the  morning  air, 

And  weep  no  more  alone  !” 

The  proud  step-mother  chid  her  woe ; — 

“ Even  for  thy  infant’s  sake 

Go  forth  into  the  morning  air. 

And  sail  upon  the  lake  I” 

There  seem’d  some  feeling  for  her  state  ; 
Their  words  were  fair  and  mild ; 

Yet  she  shudder’d  as  she  whisper’d  low, 

“ God  shield  me  and  my  child  !” 

**  Come !”  said  the  dead  Allan’s  brother  stern 
Why  dost  thou  tremble  so  ? 

Come  !” — and  with  doubt  and  fear  perplex’d 
The  lady  rose  to  go. 

They  glided  over  the  glassy  lake, 

’Till  its  lulling  murmur  smote, 


174  THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED. 

With  a death-like  omen,  to  and  fro’, 
Against  the  heaving  boat. 

And  no  one  spoke  ; — that  brother  stil 
His  face  averted  kept, 

And  the  lady’s  tears  fell  fast  and  free 
O’er  her  infant  as  it  slept. 

The  cold  faint  evening  breeze  sprang  up 
And  found  them  floating  on  ; 

They  glided  o’er  the  glassy  lake 
Till  the  day’s  last  streak  was  gone — 

Till  the  day’s  last  streak  had  died  away 
From  the  chill  and  purple  strand, 

And  a mist  was  on  the  water’s  face 
And  a damp  dew  on  the  land ; 

Till  you  could  not  trace  the  living  hue 
Of  lip,  or  cheek,  or  eye. 

But  the  outline  of  each  countenance 
Drawn  dark  against  the  sky. 

And  all  things  had  a ghastly  look, 

An  aspect  strange  and  drear  ; — 

The  lady  look’d  to  the  distant  shore 
And  her  heart  beat  wild  with  fear. 

» ♦ * * 

There  is  a rock  whose  jutting  height 
Stands  frr  wning  o’er  that  lake. 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  BETRAYED. 


1 


Where  the  faintest  call  of  the  bugle  horn 
The  echo’s  voice  will  awake  ; — 

And  there  the  water  lifts  no  wave 
To  the  breeze,  so  fresh  and  cool, 

But  lies  within  the  dark  rock’s  curve, 
Like  a black  and  gloomy  pool, 

Its  depth  is  great, — a stone  thrown  in 
Hath  a dull  descending  sound. 

The  plummet  hath  not  there  been  cast 
Which  resting-place  hath  found. 

And  scatter’d  firs  and  birch-trees  grow 
On  the  summit,  here  and  there — 
Lonely  and  joylessly  they  wave. 

Like  an  old  man’s  thin  gray  hair. 

But  not  to  nature’s  hand  it  owes 
Its  mournfulness  alone. 

For  vague  tradition  gives  the  spot 
A horror  of  its  own. 

The  boatman  doffs  his  cap  beneath 
Its  dark  o’er  hanging  shade. 

And  whispers  low  its  Gaelic  name, — 

“ The  Rock  of  the  Betray’d.” 

And  when  the  wind,  which  never  curls 
That  pool,  goes  sweeping  by. 

Bending  the  firs  and  birchen  trees 
With  a low  and  moaning  sigh,— 


176  WEEP  NOT  FOR  HIM  THAT  DIETH. 

He’ll  tell  you  that  the  sound  which  comes 
So  strange,  and  faint,  and  dim, 

Is  only  heard  at  one  set  hour. 

And  call’d  “the  Lady’s  Hymn.” 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  HIM  THAT  DIETH. 


“ Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him  ; 
but  weep  sore  for  him  that  goeth  away,  for  he  shall 
return  no  more,  nor  see  his  native  country.” — Je,r6- 
miahy  xxii,  10. 


W EEP  not  for  him  that  dieth — 

For  he  sleeps,  and  is  at  rest ; 

And  the  couch  whereon  he  lieth 
Is  the  green  earth’s  quiet  breast ; 
But  weep  for  him  who  pineth 
On  a far  land’s  hateful  shore, 

Who  wearily  declineth 
Where  ye  see  his  face  no  more  ! 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  friends  are  round  his  bed. 

And  many  a young  lip  sigheth 
When  they  name  the  early  dead* 
But  weep  for  him  that  liveth 
Where  none  will  know  or  care, 
When  the  groan  his  faint  heart  giveth 
Is  the  last  sigh  of  despair. 


C' 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  his  struggling  soul  is  free, 
And  the  world  from  which  it  flieth 
Is  a world  of  misery  ; 

But  weep  for  him  that  weareth 
The  captive’s  galling  chain  : 

To  the  agony  he  beareth, 

Death  were  but  little  pain. 


Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  he  hath  ceased  from  tears, 

And  a voice  to  his  replieth 

Which  he  hath  not  heard  for  years  ; 
But  weep  for  him  who  weepeth 
On  that  cold  land’s  cruel  shore — 
Blest,  blest  is  he  that  sleepeth, — 
Weep  for  the  dead  no  more ! 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 


Fainter  her  slow  step  falls  from  day  to  day, 
Death’s  hand  is  heavy  on  her  darkening  brow ; 
Yet  doth  she  fondly  cling  to  earth,  and  say, 

“ I am  content  to  die,  but,  oh  ! not  now  ! 

Kot  while  the  blossoms  of  the  joyous  spring 
Make  the  warm  air  such  luxury  to  breathe  ; 
Not  while  the  birds  such  lays  of  gladness  sing; 
Not  while  bright  flowers  around  my  footsteps 
wreathe. 

12 


178 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 


Si)are  me,  great  God,  lift  up  my  drooping  brow  ! 
I am  content  to  die — but,  oh ! not  now 

The  spring  hath  ripen’d  into  summer-time, 

The  season’s  viewless  boundary  is  past ; 

The  glorious  sun  hath  reach’d  his  burning  prime  ; 

Oh  ! must  this  glimpse  of  beauty  be  the  last  ? 
“ Let  me  not  perish  while  o’er  land  and  lea. 
With  silent  steps  the  lord  of  light  moves  on  ; 
Nor  while  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  bee 
Greets  my  dull  ear  with  music  in  its  tone  ! 
'’ale  sickness  dims  my  eye,  and  clouds  my 
brow ; 

^ am  content  to  die — but,  oh  ! not  now  !” 

Summer  is  gone,  and  autumn’s  soberer  hues 
Tint  the  ripe  fruits,  and  gild  the  waving  corn; 
The  huntsman  swift  the  flying  game  pursues. 
Shouts  the  halloo,  and  winds  his  eager  horn, 
“ Spare  me  awhile  to  wander  forth  and  gaze 
On  the  broad  meadows  anti  the  quiet  stream. 
To  watch  in  silence  while  the  evening  rays 
Slant  thro’  the  fading  trees  with  ruddy  gleam ! 
Cooler  the  breezes  play  around  my  brow  ; 

I am  content  to  die — but,  oh  ! not  now  !” 

The  bleak  wind  whistles,  snow- showers,  far 
and  near. 

Drift  without  echo  to  the  whitening  ground  ; 
Autumn  hath  pass’d  away,  and,  cold  and  drear. 
Winter  stalks  on,  with  frozen  mantle  bound. 


THE  CHRISTENIN&.  179 

Yet  Still  that  prayer  ascends; — “Oh!  laugh- 
ingly 

My  little  brothers  round  the  warm  hearth 
crowd, 

Our  home-fire  blazes  broad,  and  bright,  and  high, 
And  the  roof  rings  with  voices  glad  and  loud  ; 
Spare  me  awhile  ! raise  up  my  drooping  brow  ! 
I am  content  to  die — but,  oh  ! not  now 

The  spring  is  come  again — the  joyful  spring  ! 
Again  the  banks  with  clustering  flowers  are 
spread  ; 

The  wild  bird  dips  upon  its  wanton*  wing  ; — 
The  child  of  earth  is  number’d  with  the  dead  ! 
“ Thee  never  more  the  sunshine  shall  av/ake. 
Beaming  all  readily  thro’  the  lattice-pane  ; 

The  steps  of  friends  thy  slumbers  may  not  break, 
Nor  fond  familiar  voice  arouse  again  ! 

Death’s  silent  shadow  veils  thy  darken’d  brow; 
Why  didst  thou  linger  ? — thou  art  happier  now  !’> 


THE  CHRISTENING. 


Helpless  thou  liest,  thy  little  waxen  face 
Eagerly  scann’d  by  our  inquiring  glances, 
Hoping  some  lovely  likeness  there  to  trace. 
Which  fancy  finds  and  so  thy  worth  enhances; 


180  THE  CIIRISTExNINa. 

Clothing  with  thought  mature,  and  power  oi 
mind, 

Those  infant  features,  yet  so  faintly  lined. 

And  still  thy  youthful  mother  bendeth  down 
Her  large,  soft,  loving  eyes,  brimful  of  glad- 
ness, 

Her  cheek  almost  as  waxen  as  thine  own. 

Her  heart  as  innocently  free  from  sadness; 

And  still  a brighter  smile  her  red  lip  wears. 

As  each  her  young  son’s  loveliness  declares. 

And  sometimes  as  we  gaze  a sigh  is  heard, 
(Though  from  the  happy  group  all  grief  seems 
banish’d’) 

As  thou  recallest,  little  nestling  bird. 

Some  long  familiar  face  whose  light  hath 
vanish’d ; 

Some  name,  which  yet  hath  power  our  hearts  to 
thrill — 

Some  smile  whose  buried  beauty  haunts  us  still  ! 

Ah  ! most  to  Her,  the  early  widow’d,  come 
Thoughts  of  the  blossoms  that  from  earth- 
have  perish’d ; 

Lost  to  her  lone  and  solitary  home, 

Though  in  her  brooding  memory  fondly 
cherish’d : — 

Her  little  grandson’s  baby  smiles  recall 

Not  one  regretted  hope  of  youth,  but  all  ! 


THE  CHRISTENING. 


181 


Her  Son’s  son  lies  upon  her  cradling  knee, 

And  bids  her  heart  return,  with  mournful 
dreaming, 

To  her  own  first  horn’s  helpless  infancy, 

When  hope — youth’s  guiding  star— was  bright- 
ly beaming; 

And  He,  who  died  too  soon,  stood  by  and  smiled, 
And  bless’d  alike  the  mother  and  her  child. 

Since  then,  how  many  a year  hath  fleeted  past ! 
What  unforseen  events,  what  joys,  what  sor- 
rows. 

With  sunshine  or  with  clouds  have  overcast 
The  long  succession  of  her  lonely  morrows; 
Ere  musing  o’er  this  fair  and  new-born  face, 

A fresh  link  carried  on  her  orphan’d  race  ! 

Fair  child,  that  race  is  not  by  man’s  award 
Ennobled, — but  by  God  ; no  titles  sounded 
By  herald’s  trump,  or  smooth  and  flattering  bard, 
Proclaim  within  what  lines  thy  rank  is  bound- 
ed : — 

Thy  power  hereditary  none  confine, 

The  gift  of  Genius,  boy,  by  right  is  thine ! 

Be  humble,  for  it  is  an  envied  thing ; 

And  men  whose  creeping  hearts  have  long 
submitted 

Around  the  column’d  height  to  clasp  and  cling 
Of  Titled  Pride — by  man  to  man  transmit- 
ted.— 


182  THE  CHRISTENING. 

Will  grudge  the  power  they  have  less  cause  to 
dread, 

Oppose  the  living,  and  malign  when  dead. 

One  of  thy  lineage  served  his  country  well 
(Though  with  her  need  her  gratitude  departed;) 
What  in  her  memory  now  is  left  to  dwell  ? 

The  faults  of  him  who  died  half  broken-heart- 
ed:— 

And  those,  whose  envious  hands  ne’er  stretch’d 
to  save, 

Pluck  down  the  laurels  springing  from  his  grave. 

Yet  hush  ! it  is  a solemn  hour  ; and  far 
Be  human  bitterness  and  vain  upbraiding ; 
With  hope  we  watch  thy  rising,  thou  young  star, 
Hope  not  all  earthly,  or  it  were  too  fading; 
For  we  are  met  to  usher  in  thy  life. 

With  prayer, — which  lifteth  hearts,  and  quell- 
eth  strife ! 

Hush’d  is  the  busy  group,  and  still  as  death; 

All  at  the  sacred  altar  meekly  kneeling ; 

For  thy  sake,  who  so  lately  drew  thy  breath. 

All  unto  Heaven  with  earnest  heart  appealing. 
A solemn  voice  addresses  the  Most  High, 

And  with  a murmuring  echo  we  reply. 

All  holy  be  the  hour  ! and,  oh!  may  Heaven 
Look  down  and  bless  the  anxious  mother’s 
part. 

As  meekly  she  confides  the  treasure  given 


THE  MOTHER  S LAST  WATCH.  183 

So  lately  to  her  young  and  hoping  heart ; 

And  pleads  that  God’s  great  love  may  be  his 
stay, 

And  guide  her  little  Wanderer  on  his  way. 

So  let  it  be  ! and  when  the  noble  head 
Of  thy  true-hearted  father,  babe  beloved. 
Now  glossy  dark,  is  silver-gray  instead. 

And  thy  young  birth-day  far  away  removed  ; 
Still  may’st  thou  be  a comfort  and  a joy, — 

Still  welcome  as  this  day,  unconscious  boy  ! 


THE  MOTHER’S  LAST  WATCH. 


Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  the  infant 
i lughter  of  Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland. 


Hark,  through  the  proudly  decorated  halls, 
How  strangely  sounds  the  voice  of  bitter  woe. 
Where  steps  that  dread  their  echo  as  it  1‘alls 
Steal  silently  and  sadly  to  and  fro. 

There  wither’d  lies  the  bud  so  lately  given. 
And,  beautiful  in  grief  as  when  she  smiled. 
Bow’d  ’neath  the  unexpected  stroke  of  Heaven, 
The  mourning  Mother  watches  o’er  her  Child. 

Tis  her  last  Watch!  Sleep  seals  those  infant 
lids. 


184 


THE  mother’s  last  WATCH. 


Dark  fall  the  lashes  on  that  roseleaf  cheek — 
But  oh  ! — the  look  is  there,  which  Hope  forbids; 
Of  Death — of  Death  those  heavy  eyelids 
speak  ! — 

’Tis  her  last  Watch  ! — no  more  that  gentle  hand 
With  cautious  love  shall  curtain  out  the  light— 
No  more  that  graceful  form  shall  mutely  stand 
And  bless  thy  slumbers  thro’  the  shadowy 
night. 

Hush’d  is  the  innocent  heart  which  throbbing 
pain, 

Vain  hope,  and  vain  regret  had  never  moved. 
The  God  who  gave  hath  claim’d  his  gift  again, 
And  angels  welcome  her,  on  earth  so  loved. 
Yet  still  of  hope  and  fear  the  endless  strife 
Within  that  Mothers  bosom  faintly  swells. 
Still,  still  she  gazes  on,  and  dreams  of  life, 
Though  the  fond  falsehood  Reason’s  pow’i 
repels.  * 

Unheard  each  word  of  comfort  faintly  falls 
From  lips  whose  tones  in  other  days  were 
dear. 

Her  infant’s  smile  is  all  her  heart  recalls, — 

Her  infant’s  voice  is  all  her  heart  can  hear  ; — 
She  clasps  its  hand,  the  feverish  glow  others 
Wakes  into  warmth  the  freezing  current’s 
flow ; 

She  bends, — her  sobbing  breath  a ringlet  stirs 
With  mimic  life  upon  its  pallid  brow. 


THE  MOTHER’S  LAST  WATCH.  185 

Oh  ! what  a mournful  thing  is  human  love  ! 

In  happier  days  of  hope  and  bliss  gone  by, 
The  Mother’s  heart  with  pitying  throb  would 
move 

If  but  a tear  drop  dimm’d  that  laughing  eye  : 
And  now  she  prays  that  Heaven  the  boon  may 
give 

To  hear  from  those  pale  lips  a cry  of  pain— 
Aught  that  could  bid  her  sinking  soul  revive, 
And  tell  the  mourner  thou  wert  hers  again  ! 

Ah  ! never  more  that  dream  of  hope  may  be  ! — 
The  summer  breeze  among  the  boughs  shall 
wave. 

The  summer  sun  beam  bright  o’er  latid  and  lea, 
But  thou,  no  spring  shall  wake  thee  from  the 
grave  ! 

No  more  those  little  rosy  lips  shall  greet 

With  brightly  sudden  smile  her  look  of  pride  ; 
No  m*ore  with  fait’ ring  steps  those  fairy  feet 
Shall  totter  onward  to  her  cherish’d  side. 

All,  all  is  over  ! See,  with  painful  start 

She  wakens  from  her  trance  to  feel  the  whole, 
And  know  the  pang  even  from  thy  corse  to  part — 
Thou  vainly  guarded  treasure  of  her  soul' 
The  hand  that,  ah  ! so  often  hath  caress’d. 

Aids  now  to  place  thee  in  thy  narrow  bed  ! 
The  last  wild  kiss  upon  thy  cheek  is  press’d — > 
The  last  fond  tear  upon  thy  coffin  shed  !< 
And  all  is  hush’d  : but  oft  thro’  Life’s  dull  track 
(When  time  hei  present  sorrow  hath  beguiled) 


186  THE  ARAB  S FAREWELL  TO  HIS  HORSE. 

That  pale,  sweet  brow  shall  dimly  bring  us  back 
The  Mother’s  last  Watch  o’er  her  fairy  Child! 


THE  APAB’S  FAREWELL  TO 
HIS  HORSE. 


My  beautiful ! my  beautiful  1 * 

That  standest  meekly  by 
With  thy  proudly  arched  and  glossy  neck, 
And  dark  and  fiery  eye  ; 

Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now, 

With  all  thy  winged  speed — 

I may  not  mount  on  thee  again — 

Thou’rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed ! 

Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof— 

Snuff*  not  the  breezy  wind — 

The  further  that  thou  ffiest  now, 

So  far  am  I behind ; 

The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle  rein — 

Thy  master  hath  his  gold — 
Fleet-limbed  and  beautiful ! farewell ! — 
Thou’rt  sold,  my  steed — thou’rt  sold! 

Farewell ! those  free  untired  limbs 
Full  many  a mile  must  roam. 

To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky. 

Which  clouds  the  stranger’s- home; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now 


THE  ARAB  S FAREWELL  TO  HIS  HORSE. 

Thy  corn  and  bread  prepare  : 

The  silky  mane  I braided  once, 

Must  be  another’s  care  ! 

The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again, 

But  never  more  with  thee 
Shall  I gallop  through  the  desert  paths. 
Where  we  were  wont  to  be  ; 

Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth  ; 

And  o’er  the  sandy  plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step, 

Shall  bear  me^  home  again. 

Yes,  thou  must  go  ! the  wild,  free  breeze. 

The  brilliant  sun  and  sky, 

Thy  master’s  home — from  all  of  these, 

My  exiled  one  must  fly. 

Thy  proud,  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud 
Thy  step  become  less  fleet, 

And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck. 

Thy  master’s  hand  to  meet. 

Only  in  sleep  shall  I behold 
That  dark  eye,  glancing  bright— 

Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again 
That  step  so  firm  and  light: 

And  when  I raise  my  dreaming  arm 
To  check  or  cheer  thy  speed, 

Then  must  I starting  wake,  to  feel— 
Thou’rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

Ah!  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me, 

Some  cruel  hand  may  chide, 


188  THE  ARAB  S FAREWELL  TO  HIS  HORSE. 

Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves, 
Along  thy  panting  side  : 

And  the  rich  blood  that’s  in  thee  swells, 

In  thy  indignant  pain, 

Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee. 

May  count  each  started  vein. 

Will  they  ill  use  thee  ? If  I thought- 
But  no,  it  cannot  be — 

Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curbed  ; 

So  gentle,  yet  so  free. 

And  yet,  if  haply  when  thou’rt  gone. 

My  lonely  heart  should  yearn — 

Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it  now 
Command  thee  to  return  ? 


’Return  ! — alas  ! my  Arab  steed  ! 

What  shall  thy  master  do, 

When  thou  who  wert  his  all  of  joy, 

Hast  vanished  from  his  view  ? 

When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine  eye, 
And  through  the  gathering  tears 
Thy  bright  form,  for  a moment, 

Like  the  false  mirage  appears. 

Slow  and  unmounted  will  I roam. 

With  weary  foot  alone. 

Where  with  fleet  step,  and  joyous  bound. 
Thou  oft  has  borne  me  on  ; 

And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well, 

I’ll  pause  and  sadly  think, 

“ It  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck, 
When  last  I saw  him  drink  i” 


THE  FEVER-DREAM. 


When  last  1 saw  thee  drink  ! — away  ! 

The  fevered  dream  is  o’er— 

I could  not  live  a day,  and  know 
That  we  should  meet  no  more ! 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful ! 

For  hunger’s  power  is  strong — 
They  tempted  me  my  beautiful ! 

But  I have  loved  too  long. 

Who  said  that  I had  given  thee  up 
Who  said  that  thou  wert  sold  ? 

’Tis  false, — ’tis  false,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

I fling  them  back  their  gold ! 

Thus,  thus,  I leap  upon  thy  back, 
And  scour  the  distant  plains  ; 

Away  ! who  overtakes  us  now, 

Shall  claim  thee  for  his  pains. 


THE  FEVER-DREAM. 


It  was  a fever-dream  ; I lay 
Awake,  as  in  the  broad  bright  day, 

But  faint  and  worn  I drew  my  breath 
Like  those  who  wait  for  coming  death 
And  my  hand  lay  helpless  on  my  pillow 
Weak  as  a reed  or  bending  willow  ; 

And  the  night-lamp,  with  its  shadowy  veil, 
And  its  light  so  sickly,  faint,  and  pale ; 
Gleamed  mournfully  on  objects  round; 


lyi) 


THE  FEVER-DREAM. 


And  the  clock’s  stroke  was  the  only  sound  ? 
Measuring  the  hours  of  silent  lime 
With  a heavy  and  unwelcome  chime, 

As  still  monotonously  true 

To  its  pulse- like  beat,  the  minutes  flew. 

I was  alone,  but  not  asleep  ; 

Too  weary,  and  too  weak  to  weep. 

My  eyes  had  closed  in  sadness  there  ; 

And  they  who  watched  o’er  my  despair 
Had  placed  that  dim  light  in  the  room. 

And  deepened  the  surrounding  gloom, 

By  curtaining  out  the  few  sad  rays 
Which  made  things  present  to  my  gaze  ; 

And  all  because  they  vainly  thought 
At  last  the  night  its  rest  had  brought, — 

Alas  ! rest  came  no  more  to  me 
So  heavy  W’as  my  misery  ! 

They  left  me,  and  my  heart  was  filled 
"With  wandering  dreams,  whose  fancies  thrilled 
Painfully  through  my  feeble  brain. 

Till  I almost  wished  them  back  again. 

Yet  wherefore  should  I bid  them  stay  ? 

They  could  not  chase  those  dreams  away, 

But  only  watch  me  as  I lay. 

They  left  me,  and  the  midnight  stroke 
From  the  old  clock  the  silence  broke, 

And  with  a wild  repining  sigh 
I wished  it  were  my  time  to  die  ! 


THE  FEVER-DREAtM. 


19 


And  then,  with  spirit  all  dismayed, 

For  that  wild  wish,  forgiveness  prayed, 
Humbling  myself  to  God’s  high  power 
To  bear  His  will,  and  wait  Hia  hour. 

And  while  I darkly  rested  there. 

The  breath  of  a young  child’s  floating  hair. 
Perfumed,  and  warm,  and  glistening  bright. 
Swept  past  me  in  the  shrouding  night ; — 

And  the  footsteps  of  children,  light  and  quick, 
(While  my  heart  beat  loud,  and  my  breath  came 
thick) 

Went  to  and  fro  on  the  silent  floor  ; — 

And  the  lock  was  turned  in  the  fastened  door. 
As  a child  may  turn  it,  who  tiptoe  stands 
With  his  fair  round  arms  and  his  dimpled  hands, 
Putting  out  all  their  strength  in  vain 
Admittance  by  his  own  means  to  gain  : 

Till  his  sweet  impatient  voice  is  heard 
Like  the  chirp  of  a young  imprisoned  bird, 
Seeking  an  entrance  still  to  win 
By  fond  petitions  to  those  within. 

A child’s  soft  shadowy  hair,  bright  smilest 
His  merry  laugh,  and  coaxing  wiles. 

These  are  sweet  things, — most  precious  things,— 
But  in  spite  of  my  brain’s  wild  wanderings, 

I knew  that  they  dwelt  in  my  fancy  only. 

And  that  I was  sad,  and  left,  and  lonely; 

And  the  fear  of  a dreadful  madness  came 
And  withered  my  soul  like  a parching  flame ; 
And  I felt  the  strong  delirun;  growing, 


192 


ATARAXIA. 


And  the  thread  of  my  feeble  senses  going, 

And  I heard  with  a horror  all  untold 
Which  turned  my  hot  blood  icy-cold, 

Those  light  steps  draw  more  near  my  bed ; 
And  by  visions  I was  visited, 

Of  the  gentle  eyes  which  I might  not  see, 

And  the  faces  that  were  so  far  from  me ! 

And  blest,  oh  ! blest  was  the  morning  beam 
Which  woke  me  up  from  my  fever-dream  ! 


ATARAXIA. 


Come  o’er  the  green  hills  to  the  sunny  sea  I — 
The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands, 
Where  shells  unknown  to  England,  fair  and 
free,- 

Lie  brightly  scattered  on  the  gleaming  sands. 
There,  ’midst  the  hush  of  slumbering  ocean’s 
roar, 

We’ll  sit  and  watch  the  silver-tissued  waves 
Creep  languidly  along  the  basking  shore, 

And  kiss  thy  gentle  feet,  like  Eastern  slaves. 

And  we  will  take  some  volume  of  our  choice. 
Full  of  a quiet  poetry  of  thought ; 

And  thou  shalt  read  me,  witla  thy  plaintive  voice, 


ATARAXIA.  193 

Lines  which  some  gifted  mind  hath  sweetly 
wrought.  * 

And  I will  listen,  gazing  on  thy  face — 

Pale  as  some  cameo  on  th’  Italian  shell — 

Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space 
Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell, 

Come  forth  ! The  sun  hath  flung  on  Thetis' 
breast 

The  glittering  tresses  of  his  golden  hair ; 

All  things  are  heavy  with  a noonday  rest, 

And  floating  sea-birds  leave  the  siirless  air. 

Against  (he  sky,  in  outlines  clear  and  rude. 

The  cleft  rocks  stand,  while  sunbeams  slant 
between ; 

And  lulling  winds  are  murmuring  through  tha 
wood 

Which  skirts  the  bright  bay  with  its  fringe  o| 
green. 

Come  forth ! All  motion  is  so  gentle  now, 

It  seems  thy  step  alone  should  walk  the 
earth — 

Thy  voice  alone,  the  ‘ ever  soft  and  low. 

Wake  the  far-haunting  echoes  into  birth. 

Too  wild  would  be  Love’s  passionate  store  of 
hope — 

Unmeet  the  influence  of  his  changeful  power ; 

Ours  be  Companionship,  whose  gentle  scope 
Hath  charm  enough  for  such  a tranquil  hour. 

In  that,  no  jealously — no  wild  regret 

Lies  like  deep  poison  in  a flower’s  bright  cuft 


ATARAXIA. 


194  ATARAXIA. 

Which  thirsty  lips  for  ever  seek,  and  yet 
For  ever  murmur  as  they  drink  it  up. 

The  memory  of  thy  beauty  ne’er  can  rise 
With  haunting  bitterness  in  days  to  come  ; 

Thy  name  can  never  choke  my  heart  with  sighs, 
Nor  leave  the  vex’d  tongue  faltering,  faint,  and 
dumb. 

Therefore  come  forth,  oh  gentle  friend ! and 
roam 

Where  the  high  cliffs  shall  give  us  ample 
shade. 

And  see  how  glassy  lie  the  waves,  whose  foam 
Hath  power  to  make  the  seaman’s  heart  afraid. 

Seek  thou  no  veil  to  shroud  thy  soft  brown  hair — 
Wrap  thou  no  mantle  round  thy  graceful 
form ; 

The  cloudless  sky  smiles  forth  as  still  and  fair 
As  though  earth  ne’er  could  know  another 
storm. 

Come  ! Let  not  listless  sadness  make  delay — 
Beneath  Heaven’s  light  that  sadness  will  de- 
part ; 

And  as  we  wander  on  our  shoreward  way, 

A strange,  sweet  peace  shall  enter  in  thine 
heart. 

We  will  not  weep,  nor  talk  of  vanish’d  years. 
When,  link  by  link  Hope’s  glittering  chain 
was  riven ; 


ATARAXIA. 


Those  who  are  dead  shall  claim  from  love  no 
tears — 

Those  who  have  injured  us  shall  be  forgiven. 

Few  have  my  summers  been,  and  fewer  thine  ; 

Youth  ruined,  is  the  weary  lot  of  both  ; 

To  both,  all  lonely  shows  our  life’s  decline — 

Both  with  old  friends  and  ties  have  waxed 
wroth. 

But  yet  we  will  not  weep!  The  breathless 
calm 

Which  lulls  the  golden  earth,  and  wide  blue 
sea. 

Shall  pour  into  our  souls  mysterious  balm, 

And  fill  us  with  its  own  tranquillity. 


We  will  not  mar  the  scene — we  will  not  look 
To  the  veil’d  future,  or  the  shadowy  past ; 
Seal’d  up  shall  be  sad  Memory’s  open  book, 
And  Childhood’s  idleness  return  at  last  ! 

Joy,  with  his  restless,  ever-fluttering  wings, 
And  Hope,  his  gentle  brother — all  shall  cease; 
Like  weary  hinds  that  seek  the  desert  springs, 
Our  one  sole  feeling  shall  be  peace — deep 
peace  ! 

Then  come  ! Come  o’er  the  green  hills  to  the 
sea — 

The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands  * 
And  with  thy  plaintive  voice,  oh  I read  to  me/ 
As  we  two  sit  upon  the  golden  sands^ 


196  ON  SEEING  ANTHONY  ASHLEY. 

And  1 will  listen,  gazing  on  that  face — 

Pale  as  some  cameo  on  th’  Italian  shell — 
Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space 
Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell 


ON  SEEING  ANTHONY  ASHLEY. 


Ah  ! then,  what  dreams  of  proud  success, 
That  lordly  brow  of  beauty  brought, 

With  all  its  infant  stateliness. 

And  all  its  unripe  power  of  thought ! 
What  triumphs,  boundless,  unconfined, 
Came  crowding  on  my  wand’ring  mind. 

I gave  that  child,  the  voice  might  hold 
A future  senate  in  command ; 

Head  clear  and  prompt — heart  true  and  bold 
As  quick  to  act  as  understand  : 

I dream’d  the  scholar’s  fame  achieved— 
The  hero’s  wreath  of  laurel  weaved  ! 

But  as  I mused,  a whisper  came 

Which  (like  a friend’s  reproachful  tone. 
Whose  gentleness  can  smite  with  shame 
Far  more  than  fiercest  word  or  frown  ;) 
Roused  my  vex’d  conscience  by  its  spell. 
And  thus  the  whisper’d  warning  fell:— 

**  Ah  ! let  the  shrouded  future  be, 

With  all  its  weight  of  distant  care  * 


ON  SEEING  ANTHONY  ASHLEY. 

Cloud  not  with  dreams  of  vanity, 

That  blue  bright  eye,  and  forehead  fair ! 
Nor  cast  thy  worldly  hopes  and  fears 
In  shadow  o’er  his  happy  years  ! 

Desire  not,  even  in  thy  dreams, 

To  hasten  those  remoter  hours 
Which,  bright  although  fheir  promise  seems 
Must  strip  his  spring-time  of  its  flowers  !— 
What  triumph,  in  the  time  to  come. 

Shall  match  these  early  days  of  home  ? 

**  This  is  the  Eden  of  his  life, — 

His  little  heart  bounds  glad  and  free : 

Amid  a world  of  toil  and  strife, 

All  independent  smileth  he  ! 

Nor  dreams  by  that  sweet  mother’s  side 
Of  dark  Ambition’s  restless  pride. 

“ But,  like  a bird  in  winter, — still 
Fill’d  with  a sweet  and  natural  joy, 

TIio’  frost  lies  bleak  upon  the  hill. 

And  mists  obscure  the  cold  grey  sky. 
Which  sings,  tho’  on  a leafless  bough, — 

He  smileSf  even  at  the  gloomiest  brow 

Oh  ! looking  on  a child’s  fair  face 
Methinks  should  purify  the  heart ; 

As  angel  presences  have  grace 
To  bid  the  darker  powers  depart, 

And  glorify  our  grosser  sense 
With  a reflecteG  innocence  \ 


198  THE  CHAPEL  ROYAL  ST.  JAMES  S. 

And  seeing  thee,  thou  lovely  boy, 

My  soul,  reproach’d,  gave  up  its  schemes 
Of  worldly  triumph’s  heartless  joy, 

For  purer  and  more  sinless  dreams, 

And  mingled  in  my  farewell  there 
Something  of  blessi?ig  and  of  'prayer. 


THE  CHAPEL  ROYAL  ST.  JAMES’S. 


And  they  come  forth  anew, 

In  bridal  white,  that  gentle  virgin  band, 

The  chosen  flowers  of  Britain’s  happy  land  • 

For  holy  love  and  true 

Hath  wrought  an  hour  of  hope  without  alloy — 
A fairy  sight  of  splendour  and  of  joy. 

There, — with  her  locks  of  light. 

Gleaming  like  gold  around  her  noble  head, — 
The  orphan’d  Eleanor,  with  stately  tread. 
Went  by,  a vision  bright ; 

Bidding  sweet  thoughts  of  love  and  triumph  start 
Into  a father’s  and  a sister’s  heart. 

There, — in  her  beauty,  pass’d 
Young  Frances  Cowper  her  transparent  cheek 
Blushing  the  greetings  which  she  might  not 
speak, 

As  on  the  crowd  she  cast 


THE  CHAPEL  ROYAL  ST  JAMESES.  199 

The  shy  soft  glances  of  those  soft  blue  eyes, 

In  whose  unfathom’d  depth  such  sweetness  lies  ! 

There,  with  her  spotless  name, 

The  gentle  Howard,  good,  and  fair,  and  mild, 
And  bright-eyed  Bouverie,  noble  Radnor’s 
child. 

And  rose-bud  Villiers  came  ; 

And,  with  her  sweet  frank  smile,  young  Ida 
Hay, 

Looking  all  gladness,  like  a morn  in  May. 

There,  brilliant  Lennox  moved  ; 

The  Paget  beauty  shining  from  her  brow,  ^ 

And  the  dark,  deer-like  eyes  that  glanced  be- 
low ; 

While,  gentle  and  beloved, 

Amid  the  glories  of  that  courtly  throng, 
Delawarr’s  youthful  daughter  pass’d  along. 

There,  (theme  for  poet’s  praise  !) 

With  sw'anlike  throat,  and  clear  majestic  eye, 
Verulam’s  stately  Mary  glided  by  ; — 

And,  with  her  quiet  gaze 
Fix’d  smiling  on  the  scene  which  she  survey’d, 
The  soldier  Anglesea’s  bright  Adelaide. 

And  she,  whose  orbs  of  blue. 

Like  mountain  lakes  beheld  by  moonlight,  gleam 
With  all  the  shadowy  softness  of  a dream 
Such  as  Endymion  knew 


200  THE  CHAPEL  ROYAL  ST.  JAMEs’s/ 

Whose  glossy  locks  with  rich  luxuriance  twine 
Around  her  brow  : the  Lady  Wilhelmink. 

Young  were  they  all— and  fair, — 

But  thou,  Victoria,  held’st  thy  fitting  place, 

As  amongst  garden-flowers  the  lily’s  grace, 
Blooms  with  a royal  air ; 

And  from  that  lovely  various  group,  apart, 
Did’st  stand,  and  gently  look  the  queen  thou 
art. 

The  smile  thy  young  lip  wore. 

Spoke  joy  to  Him,  who,  from  his  distant  home, 
Hath  sped  in  wintry  time  o’er  ocean’s  foam — 
'I’o  seek  our  island  shore. 

With  his  frank  heart,  and  brow  so  fair  and  true, 
Claiming  thy  love — and  England’s  welcome  too. 

Oh  ! may  that  welcome  prove 
The  herald  of  deep  gladness  ; — since  in  thee 
Old  England’s  brightest  hopes  renew’d  we  see 
All-hallow’d  be  thy  love  ; 

And  still  with  proud  content  the  day  allied. 
When  Princely  Albert  claim’d  his  Royal 
Bride  ! 

May  He,  whose  gifted  hand, 

Hath  twined  sweet  wreaths  of  Poetry  and  Song 
Live  happy  among  English  hearts  so  long 
That,  native  to  the  land. 

He  shall  forget  that  e’er  his  harp  was  strung, 

To  any  accents  but  our  mother-tongue : 


CHIDICK  TYCHBORN. 


201 


And  thou, — Oh ! may  the  Crown 
Which  in  youth’s  fresiiest,  earliest  moment 
graced 

The  brow,  whose  childhood’s  roses  it  replaced, 
Ne’er  weigh  thy  spirits  down  ; 

Nor  tearful  hours,  nor  careful  thoughts,  beguile 
One  ray  of  gladness  from  thy  gracious  smile ; 

But  brightly  to  the  last. 

Fair  fortune  shine,  with  calm  and  steady  ray, 
Upon  the  tenor  of  thy  happy  way ; 

A future  like  the  past : 

And  every  prayer  by  loyal  subjects  said. 

Bring  down  a separate  blessing  on  thy  head ! 


BY  CHIDICK  TYCHBORN, 

BEING  YOUNG,  AND  THEN  IN  THE  TOWER,  THK 
NIGHT  BEFORE  HIS  EXECUTION. 


My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a frost  of  cares, 

My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a dish  of  pain. 

My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a field  of  tares. 

And  all  my  good  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain, 

The  day  is  past,  and  yet  I saw  no  sun ; 

And  now  I live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung, 
The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green, 


SPRING. 


R. 


202  SPRING. 

My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I am  but  young, 

I saw  the  world,  and  yet  I was  not  seen, 
My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun  ; 

And  now  I live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

I sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  my  room, 
I look’d  for  life,  and  saw  it  was  a shade, 

I trod  the  earth,  and  knew  it  was  my  tomb. 
And  now  I die,  and  now  I am  but  made : 
The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  glass  is  run  ; 
And  now  I live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 


SPRING. 


The  Spring  is  come  ! the  breath  of  May 

Creeps  whisperingly  where  brightest  flowers 
have  birth. 

And  the  young  sun  peeps  forth  with  redder  ray 
On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  teeming  earth. 
The  Spring  is  come  ! how  gladly  nature  wakes 
From  the  dark  slumber  of  the  vanished  year 
How  gladly  every  gushing  streamlet  breaks 
The  summer  stillness  with  its  music  clear  ! 

But  thou  art  old,  my  heart ! the  breath  of 
Spring 

No  longer  swells  thee  with  a rapturous  glow  ; 
The  wild  bird  carols  blithely  on  the  way, 


% 


f V 

bi 


But  wakes  no  smile  upon  my  withered  brow. 

Thou  art  grown  old  ! no  more  the  generous 
thought 

Sends  the  warm  blood  more  swiftly  through 
the  veins — 

Selfish  and  cold  thou  shrinkest — Spring  hath 
nought 

For  thee  but  memory  of  vanished  pains. 

The  day-break  brings  no  bounding  from  my 
rest, 

Eagerly  glad,  and  strong  in  soul  and  limb ; 

But  through  the  weary  lid  (unwelcome  guest !) 

The  sunlight  struggles  with  a lustre  dim. 

The  evening  brings  no  calm — the  night  no  sleep, 

But  feverish  tossings  on  the  hateful  bed  ; 

While  the  vexed  thoughts  their  anxious  vigils 
keep. 

Yet  more  to  weary  out  the  aching  head. 

Still  the  deep  grove — the  bower — my  footsteps 
seek  ; 

Still  do  I read  beneath  the  flowery  thorn  ; 

And  with  a worn  and  hollow-eaten  cheek, 

Woo  the  young  freshness  of  the  laughing 
morn. 

But  now  no  pleasure  in  the  well-known  lines 

Expands  my  brow,  or  sparkles  in  mine  eye  ; 

O'er  the  dull  page  my  languid  head  declines, 

And  wakes  the  echo  with  a listless  sigh. 


204  SPRING. 

Ah!  mocking  wind,  that  wandereth  o’er  my 
form, 

With  freshened  scents  from  every  opening 
flower ; 

Deep — deep  within  the  never-dying  worm — 
Life’s  longing’s  all  unquenched,  defy  the 
power  ! 

There  coolness  comes  not  with  the  cooling 
breeze — 

There  music  flows  not  with  the  gushing  rill — 

There  shadows  calm  not  from  the  spreading 
trees — 

Unslaked,  the  eternal  fever  burneth  still ! 

Mock  us  not,  Nature,  with  thy  symbol  vain 
Of  hope  succeeding  hope,  through  endless 
years — 

Earth’s  buds  may  burst — earth’s  groves  be 
green  again. 

But  man— can  man  forget  youth’s  bitter  tears? 

I thirst — I thirst ! but  duller  day  by  day 

Grow  the  clogg’d  soarings  of  my  spirit’s 
wing ; 

Faintly  the  sap  of  life  slow  ebbs  away, 

And  the  worn  heart  denies  a second  Spring, 


THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN.* 


Small  need  of  care  ! The  stately  hound,  still 
calm  and  couchant  lies, 

With  lazy  kindness  lifting  up  his  wise  and  hon- 
est eyes ; 

Declaring  by  the  emblem  meet  of  his  serene 
repose. 

How  frankly  generous  hearts  can  bear  the  bait- 
ing of  mean  foes. 

Not  so,  O ! noble-natured  brute,  would’st  thou 
quiescent  rest. 

If  the  sound  of  danger  roused  the  blood  within 
thy  valiant  breast ; 

If  near  these  helpless  little  fays, — thy  master’s 
children — came 

The  doubtful  tread  of  stranger’s  feet,  on  whom 
they  had  on  claim  ; 

Then,  then^  upspringing  with  a bound, — arous- 
ed for  their  defence, — 

* Suggested  by  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer’s  celebrated 

Picture  of  the  Marquis  of  Abercorn’^  Children. 

205 


206  THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

Each  nerve  would  arm  with  savage  strength  thy 
keen  and  eager  sense, 

And  the  darkly  gleaming  eyes  where  now  such 
softened  shadows  play. 

Would  burn  like  watch-fires,  lit  at  night,  to 
scare  the  foe  awav. 

And  were  the  danger  real  to  these,  by  whom 
thy  watch  is  kep^, — 

E’er  a rough  hand  should  dare  profane  the  cra- 
dle where  they  slept, 

E’er  a rude  step  should  reach  the  spot  where 
naw  they  smile  at  play, — 

Thy  fangs  would  meet  within  his  throat,  to  hold 
the  wretch  at  bay  I 

Thou  would’st  battle,  noble  creature,  for  these 
children  of  thy  lord’s. 

As  men  fight  fbr  a Royal  Prince,  whose  crown 
* hangs  on  their  swords  ; — 

Soldiers,  who  hear  their  General’s  cry  by 
treachery  hemm’d  in, — 

Freeman,  who  strike  for  home  and  earth,  ’gainst 
Tyranny’s  proud  sin, — 

So  would’st  thou  strive  ! And  bold  were  he 
who  then  could  lay  thee  low. 

For  still  thy  fierce  and  miglity  grasp  would  pin 
the  struggling  foe. 

And  if  keen  sword,  or  human  skill  cut  short  thy 
gasping  breath. 

Should  Ae  be  thought  thy  conqueror ? — No! — 
Thy  conqueror  would  be  Death. 


XARIFA.  207 

Oh,  tried  and  trusted  ! Thou  whose  love  ne’er 
changes  nor  forsakes, 

Thou  proof  how  perfect  God  hath  stamped  the 
meanest  thing  he  makes  ; 

Thou,  whom  no  snare  entraps  to  serve,  no  art 
is  used  to  tame, — 

(Train’d,  like  ourselves,  thy  path  to  know,  by 
words  of  love  and  blame  ;) 

Friend!  who  beside  the  cottage  door,  or  in  the 
rich  man’s  hall. 

With  steadfast  faith  still  answerest  the  one 
familiar  call, — 

Well  by  poor  hearth  and  lordly  home  thy  couch- 
ant  form  may  rest. 

And  Prince  and  Peasant  trust  thee  still,  to 
guard  what  they  love  best  I 


XARIFA. 


One  eve  at  spring-tide’s  close  we  took  our  way, 
When  eve’s  last  beams  in  soften’d  gmry  fell. 
Lighting  her  faded  form  with  sadden’d  ray. 

And  the  sweet  spot  where  we  so  lov’d  to 
dwell. 

Faintly  and  droopingly  she  sat  her  down 
By  the  blue  waters  of  the  Guadalquiver, 
With  darkness  on  her  brow,  but  yet  no  frown, 
Like  the  deep  shadow  on  that  silent  river. 
She  sat  her  down,  I say,  with  face  upturn’d 


208 


XARIFA. 


To  the  dim  sky,  which  daylight  was  forsak- 
ing, 

And  in  her  eyes  a light  unearthly  burn’d — 

The  light  which  spirits  give  whose  chains  are 
breaking ! 

And  a half  smile  lit  up  that  pallid  brow, 

As,  casting  flowers  upon  the  silent  stream. 
She  watch’d  the  frail,  sweet  blossoms  glide  and 
go 

Like  human  pleasure  in  a blissful  dream. 

And  then  with  playful  voice  she  gently  flung 
Small  shinning  pebbles  from  the  river’s  brink, 
And  o’er  the  eddying  waters  sadly  hung, 

Pleased,  and  yet  sorrowful,  to  see  them  sink. 
“And  thus,”  she  said,  “ doth  human  love  for- 
get 

Its  idols — some  sweet  blessings  float  away, 
Follow’d  by  one  long  look  of  vain  regret. 

As  they  are  slowly  hastening  to  decay  ; 

And  some,  with  sullen  plunge,  do  mock  our 
sight. 

And  suddenly  go  down  into  the  tomb. 
Startling  the  beating  heart  whose  fond  delight 
Chills  into  tears  at  that  unlook’d  for  doom. 
And  there  remains  no  trace  of  them  save  such 
As  the  soft  ripple  leaves  upon  the  wave. 

Or  a forgotten  flower,  whose  dewy  touch 
Reminds  us  some  are  withering  in  the  grave 
When  all  is  over,  and  she  is  but  dust, 

Whose  heart  so  long  hath  held  thy  form  en 
shrined : 


XARIFA. 


209 


When  I go  hence,  as  soon  as  feel  I must, 

Oh!  let  my  memory,  Isbal,  haunt  thy  mind. 
When  in  thy  daily  musing  thou  dost  bring 
Those  scenes  to  mind  in  which  I had  a share ; 
When  in  thy  nightly  watch  thy  heart  doth  wring 
With  thought  of  me — Oh!  murmur  forth  a 
prayer  ! 

A prayer  for  me~for  thee—for  all  wdio  live 
Together,  yet  asunder,  in  one  home — 

Who  their  soul’s  gloomy  secret  dare  not  give, 
Lest  it  should  blacken  all  their  year  to  come. 
Yes,  Isbal,  yes;  to  thee  I owe  the  shade 
That  prematurely  darkens  on  my  brow  ; 

And  never  had  my  lips  a murmur  made — 

But — but  that — see  ! the  vision  haunts  me 
now!” 

She  pointed  to  the  river’s  surface,  where 
Our  forms  were  pictured  seated  side  by  side  ; 
I gazed  on  them  and  hers  was  very  fair  ; 

And  mine — was  as  thou  seestit  now,  my  bride. 
But  hers,  though  fair,  was  fading — wan  and  pale 
The  brow'  whose  marble  met  the  parting  day, 
Time  o’er  her  form  had  thrown  his  misty  veil, 
And  all  her  ebon  curls  were  streak’d  with 
grey ; 

But  mine  was  youthful — yes  ! — such  youth  as 
glows 

In  the  young  tree  by  lightning  scathed  and 
blasted — 

That,  joyless,  waves  its  black  and  leafless 
boughs. 

On  which  spring  showers  and  summer  warmth 
are  wasted.  14 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  XERXES, 


I SAW  him  on  the  battle  eve, 

When  like  a king  he  bore  him  ! 

Proud  hosts  in  glittering  helm  and  greave, 
And  prouder  chiefs  before  him  ; 

The  warrior,  and  the  warrior’s  deeds, 

The  morrow,  and  the  morrow’s  meeds, — 
No  daunting  thoughts  came  o’er  him 
He  look’d  around  him,  and  his  eye 
Defiance  flash’d  to  earth  and  sky  ! 

He  look’d  on  ocean, — its  broad  breast 
Was  covered  with  his  fleet ; 

On  earth, — and  saw  from  east  to  west 
His  banner’d  millions  meet ; 

While  rock,  and  glen,  and  cave,  and  coast, 
Shook  with  the  war-cry  of  that  host. 

The  thunder  of  their  feet ! 

He  heard  the  imperial  echoes  ring— 

He  heard,  and  felt  himself  a king  ! 

I saw  him  next  alone  ; — nor  camp 
Nor  chief  his  steps  attended, 


rf 


.^'4^ 

'l|‘V  4^ 

THE  CARELESS  WORD, 


Nor  banners’  blaze  nor  coursers*  tramp, 
With  war-cries  proudly  blended  : — 

He  stood  alone,  whom  Fortune  high 
So  lately  seem’d  to  deify, 

He  who  with  heaven  contended 
Fled,  like  a fugitive  and  slave  ; 

Behind,  the  foe, — before,  the  wave  ! 

He  stood, — fleet,  army,  treasure  gone. 
Alone,  and  in  despair  ! 

While  wave  and  wind  sw^ept  ruthless  on. 
For  they  were  monarchs  there  ; 

And  Xerxes  in  a single  bark, 

Where  late  his  thousand  ships  were  dark 
Must  all  thy  fury  dare  ; — 

Thy  glorious  revenge  was  this. 

Thy  trophy,  deathless  Salamis  ! 


THE  CARELESS  WORD 


A WORD  is  ringing  thro’  my  brain. 

It  was  not  meant  to  give  me  pain ; 

It  had  no  tone  to  bid  it  stay. 

When  other  things  had  passed  away  ; 
It  had  no  meaning  more  than  all 
Which  in  an  idle  hour  fall : 

It  was  when^rs^  the  sound  I heard 
A lightly  uttered,  careless  word. 


212 


THE  CARELESS  WORD. 


That  word — oh  ! it  doth  haunt  me  now, 
In  scenes  of  joy,  in  scenes  of  woe  ; 

By  night,  by  day,  in  sun  or  shade, 

With  the  half  smile  that  gently  played 
Reproachfully,  and  gave  the  sound 
Eternal  power  thro’  life  to  wound. 

There  is  no  voice  1 ever  heard, 

So  deeply  fix’d  as  that  one  word. 

When  in  the  laughing  crowd  some  tone, 
Like  those  whose  joyous  sound  is  gone, 
Strikes  on  my  ear,  I shrink — for  then 
The  careless  word,  comes  back  again. 
When  all  alone  I sit  and  gaze 
Upon  the  cheerful  home-fire  blaze, 

Lo  ! freshly  as  when  first  ’twas  heard. 
Returns  that  lightly  uttered  word. 

When  dreams  bring  back  the  days  of  old, 
With  all  that  wishes  could  not  hold  ; 

And  from  my  feverish  couch  I start 
To  press  a shadow  to  my  heart — 

Amid  its  beating  echoes,  clear 
That  little  word  I seem  to  hear: 

In  vain  I say,  while  it  is  heard, 

Why  weep  ? — ’twas  but  a foolish  word. 

It  comes — and  with  it  come  the  tears. 

The  hopes,  the  joys  of  former  years ; 
Forgotten  smiles,  forgotten  looks, 

Thick  as  dead  leaves  on  autumn  brooks. 


THEY  LOVED  ONE  ANOTHER.  213 

And  all  as  joyless,  though  they  were 
The  brightest  things  life’s  spring  could  share. 
Oh!  would  to  God  I ne’er  had  heard 
That  lightly  uttered,  careless  word  ! 

It  was  the  first,  the  only  one 
Of  these  which  lips  forever  gone 
Breathed  in  their  love — which  had  for  me 
Rebuke  of  harshness  at  my  glee  : 

And  if  those  lips  were  heard  to  say, 

“ Beloved,  let  it  pass  away,” 

Ah  ! then,  perchance — but  I have  heard 
The  last  dear  tone — the  careless  word ! 

Oh  ! ye  who,  meeting,  sigh  to  part, 

Whose  words  are  treasures  to  some  heart, 

Deal  gently,  ere  the  dark  days  come, 

When  earih  .hath  but  for  one  a home  ; 

Lest,  musing  o’er  the  past,  like  me. 

They  feel  their  hearts  wrung  bitterly. 

And,  heeding  not  what  else  they  heard, 

Dwell  weeping  on  a careless  word. 


THEY  LOVED  ONE  ANOTHER. 


They  loved  one  another ! young  Edward  and 
his  wife. 

And  in  their  cottage-home  they  dwelt,  apart 
from  sin  and  strife. 


214  THEY  LOVED  ONE  ANOTHER. 

Each  evening  Edward  weary  came  from  a day 
of  honest  toil, 

And  Mary  made  the  fire  blaze,  and  smiled  a 
cheerful  smile. 

Oh!  what  was  wealth  or  pomp  to  them,  the 
gaudy  glittering  show, 

Of  jew'els  blazing  on  the  breast,  where  heavej 
a heart  of  woe  ! 

The  merry  laugh,  the  placid  sleep,  were  theirs 
they  hated  sloth, 

And  all  the  little  that  they  had,  belonged  alike 
to  both. 

For  they  loved  another  ! 

They  loved  one  another ; but  one  of  them  is 
gone. 

And  by  that  vainly  cheertul  hearth  poor  Edward 
sits  alone. 

He  gazes  round  on  all  w’hich  used  to  make  his 
heart  rejoice. 

And  he  misses  Mary’s  gentle  smile,  he  misses 
Mary’s  voice. 

There  are  many  in  this  chilly  world  who  would 
not  care  to  part, 

Tho’  they  dwell  together  in  one  home,  and 
ought  to  have  one  heart. 

And  yet  they  live  ! while  never  more  those  hap- 
py ones  may  meet ; 

And  the  echo  from  her  home  is  gone,  of  Mary’s 
busy  feet : 

And  they  loved  one  another ! 


MY  childhood’s  HOME.  215 

They  loved  one  another ! but  she  hath  passed 
away, 

And  taken  with  her  all  the  light,  the  sunshine 
of  his  day  ; 

And  Edward  makes  no  loud  lament,  nor  idly 
sits  and  mourns, 

But  quietly  goes  forth  at  morn,  and  quietly  re- 
turns. 

The  cottage  now  is  still  and  dark,  no  welcome 
bids  him  home, 

He  passes  it  and  wanders  on,  to  sit  by  Mary’s 
tomb. 

Oh  ! weep  my  friends — for  very  sad  and  bitter 
it  must  be 

To  yearn  for  some  familiar  face  v/e  never  more 
may  see — 

When  we  loved  one  another  ! 


MY  CHILDHOOD’S  HOME. 


I HAVE  tasted  each  varied  pleasure. 

And  drunk  of  the  cup  of  delight ; 

I have  danced  to  the  gayest  measure 
In  the  halls  of  dazzling  light. 

I have  dwelt  in  a blaze  of  splendour. 

And  stood  in  the  courts  of  kings  ; 

I have  snatched  at  each  toy  that  could  render 


b OLD  FRIENDS. 

More  rapid  the  flight  of  Time’s  wings. 

But  vainly  I’ve  sought  for  joy  or  peace, 

In  that  life  of  light  and  shade  ; 

^And  I turn  with  a sigh  to  my  own  dear  home — 
The  home  where  my  childhood  played ! 

When  jewels  are  sparkling  round  me, 

And  dazzling  with  their  rays, 

I weep  for  the  ties  that  bound  me 
In  life’s  first  early  days. 

I sigh  for  one  of  the  sunny  hours 
Ere  day  was  turned  to-night ; 

For  one  of  my  nosegays  of  fresh  wild  flowers, 
Instead  of  those  jewels  bright. 

I weep  when  I gaze  on  the  scentless  buds 
Which  never  can  bloom  or  fade  ; 

And  1 turn  with  a sigh  to  those  gay  green 
fields — 

The  home  where  my  childhood  played. 


OLD  FRIENDS 


How  are  they  waned  and  faded  from  ©ur  hearts, 
The  old  companions  of  our  early  days  ! 

Of  all  the  many  loved,  w’hich  name  imparts 
Regret  when  blamed,  or  rapture  at  its  praise? 
What  are  t^heir  several  fates,  by  Heaven  de«> 
creed. 


n/ 


They  of  the  jocund  heart,  and  careless  brow  ? 
Alas!  we  scarcely  know  and  scarcely  heed, 
Where,  in  this  world  of  sighs,  they  wander 
now.  • 

See,  bow  with  cold  faint  smile,  and  courtly  nod, 
They  pass,  whom  wealth  and  revelry  divide — 
Who  walked  together  to  the  hou^e  of  God, 
Read  from  one  book,  and  rested  side  by  side  ; 
No  look  of  recognition  lights  the  eye 
Which  laughingly  hath  met  that  fellow  face; 
With  careless  hands  they  greet  and  wander  by. 
Who  parted  once  with  tears  and  long  embrace. 

Oh,  childhood  ! blessed  time  of  hope  and  love. 
When  all  we  knew  was  Nature’s  simple  law. 
How  may  we  yearn  again  that  time  to  prove, 
When  we  looked  round,  and  loved  wlial’er  we 
saw. 

Now  dark  suspicion  wakes,  and  love  departs. 
And  cold  distrust  its  well-feigned  smile  dis- 
plays ; 

And  they  are  waned  and  faded  from  our  hearts, 
The  old  companions  of  oux  early  days ! 


cr| 


WHEN  POOR  IN  ALL  BUT  HOPE 
AND  LOVE. 


When,  poor  in  all  but  hope  and  love, 

I clasped  thee  to  my  faithful  heart ; 

For  wealth  and  fame  I vowed  to  rove, 

That  we  might  meet  no  more  to  part ! 
Years  have  gone  by — long  weary  years 
Of  toil,  to  win  thee  comfort  now — 

Of  ardent  hopes — of  sickening  fears — 

And  wealth  is  mine — but  where  art  thou  ? 

Fame’s  dazzling  dreams,  for  thy  dear  sake, 
Those  brighter  than  before  to  me  ; 

I clung  to  all  I deemed  could  make 
My  burning  heart  more  worthy  thee. 

Years  have  gone  by — the  laurel  droops 
In  mockery  o’er  my  joyless  brow  : 

A conquered  world  before  me  stoops, 

And  Fame  is  mine — but  where  art  thou  ? 


In  life’s  first  hours,  despised  and  lone, 

I wandered  through  the  busy  crowd ; 
But  now  that  life’s  best  hopes  are  gone, 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER.  2i^> 

They  greet  with  pride  and  murmurs  loud. 

Oh  ! for  thy  voice  1 thy  happy  voice, 

To  breathe  its  laughing  welcome  now; 

Wealth,  fame,  and  all  that  should  rejoice, 

To  me  are  vain — for  where  art  thou  ? 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS 
TOGETHER. 


We  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 

Since  first  beneath  the  chesnut  trees 
In  infancy  we  played. 

But  coldness  djk\'ells  within  thy  lieartj 
A cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  friends  together — 
Shall  a light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together  ; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests  ; 

For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 
Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 

But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 
And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together, 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears, 


y-'r" 

& ' ^ 


220 


THE  MOURNERS. 


O’er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slumbered 
The  hopes  of  early  years. 

The  voices  which  are  silent  there 
Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow ; 

We  have  been  sad  together — 

O h ! What  shall  part  us  now  ? 


THE  MOURNERS. 


Low  she  lies,  who  blest  our  eyes 
Through  many  a sunny  day  ; 

She  may  not  smile  she  will  not  rise — 

The  life  hath  past  away  I 

Yet  there  is  a world  of  light  beyond, 

Where  we  neither  die  nor  sleep — 

She  is  there,  of  whom  our  souls  were  fond — 
Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

The  heart  is  cold,  whose  thoughts  were  told 
In  each  glance  of  her  glad  bright  eye  ; 

And  she  lies  pale,  w'ho  was  so  bright. 

She  scarce  seemed  made  to  die. 

Yet  we  know  that  her  soul  is  happy  now. 
Where  the  saints  their  calm  watch  keep  ; 

That  angels  are  crowding  that  fair  young  brow’- 
Then  wherefore  do  we  weep? 

Her  laughing  voice  made  all  rejoice. 

Who  caught  the  happy  sound  ; 


THE  MOURNERS. 


There  was  gladness  in  her  very  step, 

As  it  lightly  touched  the  ground. 

The  echoes  of  voice  and  step  are  gone  ; 

There  is  silence  still  and  deep : 

Yet  we  know  she  sings  by  God’s  bright  throne 
Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

The  cheek’s  pale  tinge,  the  lid’s  dark  fringe, 
That  lies  like  a shadow  there. 

Were  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  all — 

And  her  glossy  golden  hair  ! 

But  though  that  lid  may  never  wake 
From  its  dark  and  dreamless  sleep, 

She  is  gone  were  young  hearts  do  not  break — 
Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

That  world  of  light  with  joy  is  bright. 

This  is  a world  of  woe  : 

Shall  we  grieve  that  her  soul  hath  taken  flight 
Because  we  dwell  below  ? 

We  will  bury  her  under  the  mossy  sod, 

And  one  long  bright  tress  we’ll  keep  ; 

We  have  only  given  her  back  to  God— 

Ah  ! wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 


WOULD  I WERE  WITH  THEE! 


Would  I were  with  thee  ! every  day  and  hour 

Which  now  I spend  so  sadly,  far  from  thee — 

Would  that  my  form  possessed  the  magic 
power 

To  follow  where  my  heavy  heart  would  be  ! 
Whate’er  thy  lot — by  land  or  sea — 

Would  I were  with  thee — eternally  ! 

Would  I were  with  thee  ! when,  the  world  for- 
getting, 

Thy  weary  limbs  upon  the  turf  are  thrown, — 

While  bright  and  red  the  evening  sun  is  setting, 

And  all  thy  thoughts  belong  to  heaven  alone  : 
While  happy  dreams  thy  heart  employ — 
Would  I were  with  thee — in  thy  joy  ! 

Would  I were  with  thee  ! when,  no  longer  feign- 
ing 

The  hurried  laugh  that  stiffles  back  a sigh ! 

Thy  young  lip  pours  unheard  its  sweet  com- 
plaining. 

And  tears  have  quenched  the  light  within  thine 
eye  : 


THE  CAPTIVE  PIRATE. 


When  all  seems  dark  and  sad  below, 
Would  I were  with  thee — ^in  thy  woe  ! 

Would  I were  with  thee ! when  the  day  is 
breaking, 

And  when  the  moon  hath  lit  the  lonely  sea — 
Or  when  in  crowds  some  careless  note  awaking : 
Speaks  to  thy  heart  in  memory  of  me. 

In  joy  or  pain,  by  sea  or  shore — 

Would  1 were  with  thee — evermore! 


THE  CAPTIVE  PIRATE. 


The  captive  pirate  sat  alone. 

Musing  over  triumphs  gone. 

Gazing  on  the  clear  blue  sky 
From  his  dungeon  window  high. 
Dreamingly  he  sate,  and  thought 
Of  battles  he  had  seen  and  fought; 

And  fancy  o’er  him  threw  her  spell. 

He  deemed  he  had  not  bid  farewell 
To  the  friends  who  loved  him  best : 
O’er  the  white  wave’s  snowy  crest 
Seems  he  now  once  more  to  sail, 

Borne  by  the  triumphant  gale  : 
Cheerily  the  light  bark  bounds. 

In  his  ears  the  music  sounds 
Of  hoarsely  mingled  waves  and  voices, 


O 


224 


THE  CAPTIVE  PIRATE. 


And  his  inmost  soul  rejoices  ! 

He  gives  the  signal  of  command, 

He  waves — he  drops — the  lifted  hand ! 

It  was  a sound  of  clashing  steel — 

Why  starts  he  thus ? what  doth  he  feel? 
The  clanking  of  his  iron  chain 
Hath  made  him  prisoner  again  ! 

He  groans,  as  memory  round  him  brings 
The  shades  of  half- forgotten  things. 

His  friends  ! his  faithful  friends  ! — a sigh 
Bursts  from  that  bosom  swelling  high. 
His  bark  ! his  gallant  bark  1 — a tear 
Darkens  the  eye  that  knew  not  fear. 

And  another  meaner  name 
Must  lead  his  men  to  death  or  fame  ! 
And  another  form  must  stand 
(Captain  of  his  mourning  band) 

On  the  deck  he  trod  so  well, 

While  his  bark  o’er  ocean’s  swell 
Is  sailing  far,  far  out  at  sea, 

Where  he  never  more  may  be  ! 

Oh!  t*o  be  away  once  more 
From  the  dark  and  loathsome  shore ! 

Oh  ! again  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  his  ship’s  crew’s  hearty  cheer! 

Souls  who  by  his  side  have  stood, 
Careless  of  their  ebbing  blood. 

Wiped  the  death-dew  from  their  brow, 
And  feebly  smiled  their  truth  to  show  J 
Little  does  the  Pirate  deem 
Freedom  now  were  but  a dream  ; 

Little  does  the  chieftain  think 


THE  CAPTIVE  PIRATE. 


That  his  lost  companions  drink 
Sirugglingly  by  the  salt  sea  wave, 

Once  their  home,  and  now  their  grave ! 
And  the  bark  from  which  they  part, 
(While  his  sad  and  heavy  heart 
Yearns  to  tread  her  gallant  deck,) 
Helpless  lies,  a heaving  wreck  ! — 

And  little  will  Hipy  deem,  who  roam 
Hereafter  in  their  floating  home, 

While  their  sunlit  sail  is  spread. 

That  it  gleams  above  the  dead — 

That  the  faithless  wave  rolls  on 
Calmly,  as  they  were  not  gone. 

While  its  depths  warm  hearts  doth  cover. 
Whose  beatings  were  untimely  over! 
And  little  will  they  deem,  who  stand 
Safe  upon  the  sea-girt  land. 

That  to  the  stranger  all  it  gave 
Was — a prison  and  a grave  I 
That  the  ruin’d  fortress  towers 
Number’d  his  despairing  hours. 

And  beneath  their  careless  tread. 

Sleeps — the  broken-hearted  dead ! 

15 


I 


0 


TflE  FUTURE. 


I WAS  a laughing  child,  and  gaily  dwelt 
Where  murmuring  brooks,  and  dark  blue  rivers 
roll’d. 

And  shadowy  trees  outspread  their  silent  arms, 
To  welcome  all  the  weary  to  their  rest. 

And  there  an  antique  castle  raised  its  head. 
Where  dwelt  a fair  and  fairy  girl : perchance 
Two  summers  she  had  seen  beyond  my  years  ; 
And  all  she  said  or  did,  was  said  and  done 
With  such  a light  and  airy  sportiveness. 

That  oft  I envied  her,  for  I was  poor. 

And  low'ly,  and  to  me  her  fate  did  seem 
Fraught  with  a certainty  of  happiness. 

Years  past ; and  she  was  wed  against  her  will, 
To  one  who  sought  her  for  the  gold  she  brought, 
And  they  did  vex  and  wound  her  gentle  spirit, 
Till  madness  took  the  place  of  misery. 

And  oft  J heard  her  low,  soft,  gentle  song. 
Breathing  of  early  limes  with  mournful  sound, 
Till  I could  weep  to  hear,  and  thought  how 
sad, 

The  envied  future  of  her  life  had  prov’d. 

226 


Y sd.) 


THE  FUTURE. 

And  then  I grew  a fond  and  thoughtful  girl. 
Loving,  and  deeming  I was  lov’d  again: 

But  he  that  won  my  easy  heart,  full  soon 
Turn’d  to  another; — she  might  be  more  fair. 
But  could  not  love  him  better.  And  I wept, 
Day  after  day,  till  weary  grew  my  spirit, 

With  fancying  how  happy  she  must  be 
Whom  he  had  chosen — yet  she  was  not  so ; 

For  he  she  wedded,  loved  her  for  a time, 

And  then  he  changed,  even  as  he  did  to  me. 
Though  something  later ; and  he  sought  an- 
other 

To  please  his  fancy,  far  away  from  home. 

And  he  was  kind:  oh,  yes!  he  still  was  kind. 

It  vexed  her  more  ; for  though  she  Itnem  his 
love 

Had  faded  like  the  primrose  after  spring. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  which  she  might  com- 
plain, 

Had  cause  to  grieve  her  ; he  was  gentle  still. 
She  would  have  given  all  the  store  she  had, 
That  he  would  but  be  angry  for  an  hour, 

That  she  might  come  and  sooth  his  wounded 
spirit, 

And  lay  her  weeping  head  upon  his  bosom. 

And  say,  how  freely  she  forgave  her  wrongs  : 
But  still,  with  calm,  cold  kindness  he  pursued 
(Kindness,  the  mockery  of  departed  love  !) 

His  way — and  then  she  died,  the  broken  hearted; 
And  I thanked  heaven,  who  gave  me  not  her 
lot, 


228 


THE  FUTURE, 


Though  I had  wish’d  it. 

Again,  I was  a wife,  a happy  wife  ; 

And  he  I loved  was  still  unchangeable. 

And  kind,  and  true,  and  loved  me  from  his 
soul ; 

But  I was  childless,  and  my  lonely  heart 
Yearned  for  an  image  of  my  heart’s  beloved, 

A something  yvhich  should  be  my  ‘future’  7iow 
That  I had  so  much  of  my  life  gone  by ; 
Something  to  look  to  after  I should  go. 

And  all  except  my  memory  be  past. 

There  was  a child,  a little  rosy  thing. 

With  sunny  eyes,  and  curled  and  shining  hair, 
That  used  to  play  among  the  daisy  flowers, 
Looking  as  innocent  ^nd  fair  as  they  ; 

And  sail  its  little  boat  upon  the  stream. 

Gazing  with  dark  blue  eyes  in  the  blue  waters. 
And  singing  in  its  merriment  of  heart 
All  the  bright  day : and  when  the  sun  was  set- 
ting. 

It  came  unbid  to  its  glad  mother’s  side. 

To  lisp  with  holy  look  its  evening  prayer: 

And,  kneeling  on  the  green  and  flowery  ground. 
At  the  sweet  cottage  door — he  fixed  his  eyes 
For  some  short  moments  on  her  tranquil  face. 
As  if  was  his  guiding  star  to  God ; 

And  then  with  young,  meek,  innocent  brow  up- 
raised. 

Spoke  the  slow  words  with  lips  that  longed  to 
smile. 

But  dared  not.  Oh!  I loved,  that  child  with  all 
A mother’s  fondest  love  ; and,  as  he  grew 


THE  FUTURE. 


229 


More  and  more  beautiful  from  day  to  day, 

The  half-involuntary  sigh  I gave 
Spoke  but  too  plain  the  wish  that  he  were 
mine — 

My  child — my  own.  And  in  my  solitude, 

Often  I clasped  my  hands  and  thought  of  him. 
And  looked  with  mournful  and  reproachful  gaze 
To  heaven,  w'hich  had  denied  me  such  a one. 
Years  past  : the  child  became  a rebel  boy  ; 

The  boy  a wild,  untamed,  and  passionate  youth ; 
The  youth  a man — but  such  a man  ! so  fierce. 
So  wild,  so  headlong,  and  so  haughty  too. 

So  cruel  in  avenging  any  wrongs. 

So  merciless  when  he  had  half  avenged  them ! 
At  length  his  hour  had  come — a deed  of  blood. 
Of  murder y was  upon  his  guilty  soul. 

He  stood  in  that  same  spot,  by  his  sw’ect  home. 
The  same  blue  river  flowing  by  his  feet, 

(Whose  stream  might  never  wash  his  guilt 
away  ;) 

The  same  green  hills,  and  mossy  sloping  banks. 
Where  the  bright  sun  was  smiling  as  of  yore  : 
With  pallid  cheek  and  dark  and  sullen  brow. 
The  beautiful  and  lost;  you  might  have  deemed 
That  Satan,  newly  banished,  stood  and  gazed 
On  the  bright  scenery  of  an  infant  world. 

For,  fallen  as  he  w^as,  his  Maker’s  hand 
Had  stamped  him  beauteous,  and  he  was  so 
still. 

And  his  eyes  turned  from  off*  his  early  home 
With  something  like  a shudder ; and  they  light- 
ed 


THE  FUTURE. 

On  his  poor  broken-hearted  mother’s  grave. 
And  there  was  something  in  them  of  old  limes, 
Ere  sin  had  darkened  o’er  their  tranquil  blue, 

In  that  most  mournful  look — that  made  me 
weep ; 

“ For  I had  gazed  on  him  with  fear  and  anguish 
Till  now.  And,  ‘ weep  for  her,'  my  favourite 
said, 

For  she  was  good — I murdered  her — I killed 
Many  that  harmed  me  not.”  And  still  he  spoke 
In  a low,  listless  voice  ; and  forms  came  round 
Who  dragged  him  from  us.  I remember  not 
What  followed  then.  But  on  another  day 
There  was  a crowd  collected,  and  a cart 
Slowly  appi*oached  to  give  to  shameful  death 
Its  burden;  and  there  was  a prayer,  and  si- 
lence. 

Silence  like  that  of  death.  And  then  a mur- 
mur ! 

And  all  was  over.  And  I groaned,  and  turned 
To  where  his  poor  old  father  had  been  sitting; 
And  there  he  sate,  still  with  his  feeble  limbs 
And  palsied  head,  and  dim  and  watery  eyes. 
Gazing  up  at  the  place  where  was  bis  so?i; 

And  with  a shuddering  touch  I sought  to  rouse 
him, 

But  could  not,  for  the  poor  old  man  was  dead. 
And  then  I flung  myself  upon  the  ground, 

And  mingled  salt  tears  with  the  evening  dew; 
And  thanked  my  God  that  he  was  not  my  son ; 
And  that  I was  a childless,  lonely  wife. 
To-morrow  I wdll  tell  thee  all  that  now 


THE  FUTURE. 


231 


Remains  to  tell — but  1 am  old  and  feeble, 

And  cannot  speak  for  tears. 

She  rose  and  went, 

But  she  returned  no  more.  The  morrow  came, 
But  not  to  her  ; — the  tale  of  life  was  finished, 
Not  by  her  lips,  for  she  had  ceased  to  breathe. 
But,  by  this  silent  warning  joined  to  hers. 

How  little  we  may  count  upon  the  future. 

Or  reckon  what  that  future  may  bring  forth. 


THE  RINGLET. 


Oh  ! treasured  thus  by  passion's  slave, 
Dear  relic  of  the  bygone  year  ; 

Say,  what  remains  of  her  who  gave  ? 

The  vain  regret — the  useless  tear. 

The  clasping  hands — the  throbbing  brow — 
The  murmuring  of  that  shadowy  word. 
To  which  had  answered  once — oh  ! now. 
Why  is  that  light  quick  step  unheard  ? 

What  in  those  syllables  is  found. 

That  such  a start  of  woe  can  claim 
A word  is  but  an  empty  sound, — 

Alas  ! it  is — it  was — her  name  ! 

It  was — yes,  she  was  once  ! as  gay. 


232  THE  RINGLET. 

The  breath — the  life — hath  passed  away, 
But  not  the  pang  her  momory  gives. 

Bright  tress  thy  beauty'bringeth  now 
A thousand  dreams  of  rapt  ure  gone  j 

Her  suuny  eyes,  her  radiant  brow, 

The  low,  light  laughter  of  her  tone. 

Gazing  on  thee,  again  she  stands 
Before  me,  as  in  days  of  old  ; 

With  all  her  young  head’s  shining  bands, 
And  all  its  wavy  curls  of  gold. 

Till  as  I view  thee,  silken  tress, 

I feel  within  my  suffering  heart, — 

*Tis  all  which  now  my  sight  can  bless, 

All  that  of  her  will  not  depart. 

Oh  ! thou  that  wert  life’s  dearest  prize, 
That  now  art  but  a thought  of  pain ; 

Why  do  thy  tones — thy  laughing  eyes 
Rise  up  to  wring  my  soul  again? 

I roam  in  vain : the  sun  that  beams 
Is  still  the  sun  we  looked  upon  ; 

My  hand,  my  lonely  hand,  in  dreams. 
Seeks  still  for  thine  to  clasp  its  own. 

My  heart  resists  all  time — all  change, 

And  finds  no  other  form  so  dear. 

My  memory,  wheresoe’er  I range. 

Clings  to  the  spot  where  thou  wert  near. 

Change  I thou  wert  all  life’s  scenery  : 

To  me,  the  billowy,  bounding  wave — 

The  wide  green  earth — the  far  blue  sky, 
Form  but  the  landscape  of  thy  grave  1 


THE  HEAHT’s  wreck. 

Oh  bitter  is  their  boon  of  life 

Who  cannot  hope — who  may  not  die— 
I linger  in  a world  of  strife, 

Whilst  thou  art  in  the  happy  sky! 

I envy  thee  the  peace  thou  hast, 

And,  but  ’lis  sin,  the  knee  would  bow, 
That  He  who  made  thee  all  thou  wnst, 
Would  make  me  all — that  thou  art  now 


THE  HEART’S  WRECK. 


The  lulling  winds  may  still  the  sea, 

All  beautiful  in  its  repose ; 

And  with  a soft  tranquility 

The  rippling  water  ebbs  and  flows. 

But  when  the  tempests  wildly  blow, 

Its  bosom  heaves  with  many  a wreck 

Which,  till  that  moment,  slept  below. 
Nor  dimmed  its  surface  with  a speck. 

So  7 can  talk,  and  laugh,  and  seem 
All  that  the  happiest  souls  could  be ; 

Lulled  for  a moment,  by  some  dream, 
Soft  as  the  sunset  on  the  sea. 

But  when  a word,  a tone,  reminds 
My  bosom  of  its  perished  love, 


Oh!  fearful  are  the  stormy  winds 

Which  dash  the  hearts  wild  wrecks  above ! 

One  after  one  they  rise  again, 

And  o’er  dark  memory’s  ocean  steal, 
Floating  along,  through  years  of  pain — 

Such  as  the  heart-struck  only  feel ! 


THE  LOST  ONE. 


Come  to  the  grave — the  silent  grave  ! and  dream 
Of  a light,  happy  voice — so  full  of  joy, 

That  those  who  heard  her  laugh,  would  laugh 
again. 

Echoing  the  mirth  of  such  an  innocent  spirit ; 
And  pause  in  their  own  converse,  to  look  round. 
Won  by  the  witchery  of  that  gleesome  tone. 
Come  to  the  grave — the  lone  dark  grave!  and 
dream 

Of  eyes  whose  brilliancy  was  of  the  soul. 

Eyes  which,  with  one  bright  flash  from  their 
dark  lids, 

Seemed  at  a glance  to  read  the  thoughts  of 
others  ; 

Or,  with  a full  entire  tenderness. 

The  pure  expression  of  all -perfect  love, 

(Of  woman’s  love,  which  is  for  you  alone, 
While  your’s  is  for  yourself) — gave  in  that  look 


THE  LOST  ONE. 

The  promise  of  a life  of  meek  affection. 

Come  to  the  grave — the  mouldering  grave  ! and 
dream 

Of  a fair  form  that  glided  over  earth 
One  of  its  happiest  creatures  : — to  her  cheek 
The  lightest  word  might  bring  the  blushing 
blood 

In  pure  carnation  ; — down  her  graceful  neck, 
The  long  rich  curls  of  jet  hung  carelessly, 
Uniortured  by  the  cunning  hand  of  art : 

And  on  her  brow,  bright  purity  and  joy, 

Twin  sisters,  sate. — as  on  a holy  throne. 

Come  yet  unto  the  grave — the  still,  damp  grave  ! 
And  dream  of  a young  heart  that  beat  with  life, 
And  ail  life’s  best  affections;  of  a heart 
Where  sorrow  never  came,  nor  fear,  nor  sin — 
Nor  aught. save  innocence,  and  perfect  love  : 
And,  having  dreamed  of  such  a lovely  being — 
So  gay,  so  bright,  so  pure,  so  fond,  so  meek — 
Having  thus  conjured  up  a form  of  love 
In  thine  own  pausing  and  regretful  mind; 

A vision  will  be  present  to  thy  soul, 

A faint,  but  faithful  portraiture,  of  one  , 
Most  dearly  loved,  and  now  for  ever  lost ! 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  RORNER. 


Where  is  the  minstrers  native  land  ? 
Where  the  flames  of  light  and  feeling  glow ; 
Where  the  flowers  are  wreathed  for  beauty’s 
brow  ; 

Where  the  bounding  heart  swells  strong  and 
high, 

With  holy  hopes  which  may  not  die — 

There  is  my  native  land  ! 

What  is  that  bright  land’s  music  name  ? 
Ere  it  bent  its  neck  to  a foreign  yoke, 

It  was  called  the  land  of  the  broad  strong  oak— 
The  land  of  the  free — the  German  land — 

But  her  sons  lie  slain  by  the  stranger’s  hand. 
And  she  weeps  sad  tears  of  shame. 

Why  does  the  minstrel’s  country  weep  ? 
That  the  hurricane’s  rage  hath  bowed  the  pride 
Of  those  who  should  stem  the  rising  tide  ; 

That  her  princes  quail — and  that  none  will  hear 
Her  holy  words  of  might  and  fear — 

Therefore  my  land  must  weep  ! 

236 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 


237 


To  whom  does  the  minstrel’s  country  call  ? 

It  calls  to  the  silent  heavenly  powers, 

With  despair,  as  the  thunder  darkly  lowers. 

For  its  freedom — for  those  who  should  break  its 
chain — 

For  the  hand  that  never  strikes  in  vain — 

To  these  doth  my  country  call ! 

For  what  does  the  minstrel’s  country  sigh  ? 
That  the  bloodhound  may  hunt  beyond  the 
bound 

Of  the  soil  which  brave  hearts  make  holy 
ground ; 

That  the  serf  may  cease  ; and  our  sons  be  free 
Or  those  who  have  borne  them,  cease  to  be — 
For  this  does  my  country  sigh  ! 

And  still  doth  the  minstrel’s  country  hope  ? 
Her  hope  is  firm,  for  her  cause  is  good — 

That  her  brave  will  rise,  and  her  true  in  blood; 
And  that  Gcd  the  avenger,  our  fathers’  God, 
Will  mark  the  tears  that  bedew  her  sod — 

Such  is  my  country’s  hope  ! 


DREAMS. 


Surely  I heard  a voice — surely  my  name 
Was  breathed  in  tones  familiar  to  my  heart ! 

I listened — and  the  low  wind  stealing  came, 

In  darkness  and  in  silence  to  depart. 

Surely  I saw  a form,  a proud  bright  form, 
Standing  beside  my  couch  ! 1 raised  mine  eyes : 
’Twas  but  a dim  cloud,  herald  of  a storm, 

That  floated  through  the  grey  and  twilight  skies. 

Surely  the  brightness  of  the  summer  hour 
Hath  suddenly  burst  upon  the  circling  gloom! 
I dream  ; ’twas  but  the  perfume  of  a flower, 
Which  the  breeze  wafted  through  the  silent 
room. 

Surely  a hand  clasped  mine  with  greetings  fond  ! 
A name  is  murmured  by  my  lips  with  pain ; 
Woe  for  that  sound — woe  for  love's  broken 
bond. 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


Do  you  remember  all  the  sunny  places, 

Where  in  bright  days,  long  past,  we  played  to- 
gether ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  old  home  faces 
That  gathered  round  the  hearth  in  wintry 
weather  ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  happy  meetings. 

In  Summer  evenings  round  the  open  door — 
Kind  looks,  kind  hearts,  kind  words  and  tender 
greetings, 

And  clasping  hands  whose  pulses  beat  no  more  ? 

Do  you  remember  them  ? 

Do  you  remember  all  the  merry  laughter  ; 

The  voices  round  the  swing  in  our  old  garden  : 
The  dog  that,  when  we  ran,  still  followed  after; 
The  teazing  frolic  sure  of  speedy  pardon  : 

We  were  but  children  then,  young  happy  crea- 
tures. 

And  hardly  knew  how  much  we  had  to  lose — 
But  now  the  dreamlike  memory  of  those  features 
Comes  back,  and  bids  my  darkened  spirit  muse. 

Do  you  remember  them  ? 

239 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

Do  you  remember  when  we  first  departed 
From  all  ihe  old  companions  who  were  round  us, 
How  very  soon  again  we  grew  light-hearted, 
And  talked  with  smiles  of  all  the  links  which 
bound  us  ? 

And  after,  when  our  footsteps  were  returning, 
With  unfek  weariness,  o’er  hill  and  plain  ; 

How  our  young  hearts  kept  boiling  up,  and 
burning, 

To  think  how  soon  we’d  be  at  home  again, 

Do  you  remember  this  ? 

Do  you  remember  how  the  dreams  of  glory 
Kept  fading  from  us  like  a fairy  treasure  ; 

How  we  thought  less  of  being  famed  in  story, 
And  more  of  those  to  whom  our  fame  gave 
pleasure. 

Dayou  remember  in  far  countries,  weeping, 
When  a light  breeze,  a flower,  hath  brought  to 
mind. 

Old  happy  thoughts,  which  till  that  hour  were 
sleeping. 

And  made  us  yearn  for  those  we  left  behind  ? 

Do  you  remember  this? 

Do  you  remember  when  no  sound  ’woke  gladly, 
But  desolate  echoes  through  our  home  were 
ringing, 

How  for  a while  we  talked — then  paused  full 
sadly. 

Because  our  voices  bitter  thoughts  were  bring- 
ing ? 


n/ 


THE  GREEK  GIRL’s  LAMENT  FOR  HER  LOVER.  241 


All  me  ! those  days — those  days ! my  friend, 
my  brother, 

Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  of  all  our  woe, 

For  we  have  nothing  left  but  one  another; — 
Yet  where  they  went,  old  playmate,  we  shall  go— 
Let  us  remember  this. 


THE  GREEK  GIRL’S  LAMENT  FOR 
HER  LOVER. 


01 


ft 


Imra  ! thy  form  is  vanished 
From  the  proud  and  patriot  band ; 
Imra  ! thy  voice  is  silent, 

’Mongst  the  voices  of  the  land, 
w And  bravely  hast  thou  fallen ! 

In  joy  didst  thou  depart ; 

Their  chains  shall  never  bind  thee, 
Young  hero  of  my  heart  I 


But  with  thee  the  dream  is  over 
That  bound  my  soul  so  long ; 
And  the  words  of  fame  and  glory 
Have  vanished  from  my  song  : 
My  heart  which  bounded  proudly 
Is  as  sad  as  sad  can  be  ; 

I thought  it  beat  for  freedom. 

But  I feel  it  beat— /or  ihee» 

16 


'5. 


242 


MART. 


I thought  the  victory’s  triumph 
Would  have  made  my  soul  rejoice. 
But  that  was  when  I listened 
To  the  music  of  thy  voice. 

I’he  dreams  of  fame  and  conquest, 

Of  my  country  being  free  ; 

What  love  were  they  to  Zoo, 

But  most  blessed  dreams  of  thee  ? 

It  is  past — thy  voice  may  never 
Speak  of  triumph,  or  of  love  ; 

And  the  bright  hope  that  was  burning 
Hath  flown  with  thee  above. 

This  earth  contains  no  dwelling, 

No  land  of  rest  for  me  ; 

When  Hellas  was  my  country, 

1 dwelt  in  it  with  thee  ! 


MARY. 


Yes,  we  were  happy  once,  and  care 
My  jocund  heart  could  ne’er  surprise*^ 
My  treasures  were,  her  golden  hair, 

Her  ruby  lips,  her  brilliant  eyes. 

My  treasures  were — alas  I depart 
Y e visions  of  what  used  to  be  ! 

Cursed  be  the  heart — the  cruel  heart— 
That  stole  my  Mary’s  love  from  me. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LIFE. 


243 


Dark  are  my  joyless  days — and  thou— 

Dost  thou  too  dream,  and  dreaming  weep? 

Or,  careless  of  thy  broken  vow, 

Unholy  revels  dost  thou  keep? 

No,  Mary,  no, — we  loved  too  well, 

Such  deep  oblivion  cannot  be; 

Cursed  be  the  lips,  where  guile  could  dwell, 
To  lure  thy  love  away  from  me  ! 

It  cannot  be  ! — ah  ! haply,  while 

With  wild  reproach  I greet  thy  name. 

Thy  ruby  lip  hath  ceased  to  smile — 

I’hy  happy  head  is  bowed  with  shame ! 

Haply,  with  haggard  want  opprest, 

Thou  weepest  where  no  eye  may  see  ; 
Cursed  be  the  spoiler’s  cruel  breast — 

But,  oh!  my  Mary  ! — heaven  shield  thee! 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LIFE. 


Pilgrim,  who  toilest  up  life’s  weary  steep, 

To  reach  the  summit  still  with  pleasure  crown- 
ed ; 

Born  but  to  sigh  and  smile ; to  sin  and  weep, 
Dost  mark  the  busy  multitudes  around  ? 

Dost  mourn,  with  those  who  tread  with  fainting 
feet, 

And  blighted  worn-out  heart,  the  self  same 
road  ? 


244  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LIFE. 

Dost  laugh  with  those  who  think  their  travel 
sweet, 

And  deem  existence  no  unwelcome  load  ? — 
Ah,  no!  unconscious  of  their  or  woe, 

Quick  hurrying  onward  still,  or  gazing  back, 
With  feeble  lustre  round  their  planet  glow 
A few  beloved,  connected  with  thy  track  ; 
Dear  links  of  life,  for  whom  to  toil  is  bliss  ; 

Circlet  of  stars  in  young  hope’s  diadem  ; 

Gay  lightsome  hearts  who  know  no  joy  but 
this — 

To  be  together  is  enough  for  them. 

Thou  pausest  on  thy  way — one  light  is  set — 

No  power  of  love  relumes  the  torch  of  life  ; 
What  e’er  it  was,  ’tis  lost — and  vain  regret 
Pursues  the  rosy  babe,  or  faithful  wife. 

’Tis  past — *tis  gone — the  brightness  of  those  eyes 
Can  cheer  no  more  thy  melancholy  home: 

But  grief  may  not  endure — new  joys  arise  ; 

The  past  is  not — but  thou  hast  years  to  come  ! 
New  joys  arise — eager  thou  pressest  on, 

Hope’s  brilliant  mockery  deceiving  still. 

And  now  thou  weepest  o’er  delusions  gone, 

Novv  hail’st  with  transport  days  devoid  of  ill. 
Yet  ever  as  thou  goest  on  thy  way. 

However  bright  may  be  tiie  present  hour, 

Clings  to  thy  mind  with  brighesl,  purest  ray. 
The  joy  thou  could’st  not  hold,  the  faded  flow- 
er— 

Still  dearest  seems  the  past  ; and  as  each  light, 
Extinguished,  leaves  thee  lone,  through  mem 
ory’s  tears 


TO  A BLIND  CHILD. 

More  dim  ihe  future  rises  to  thy  sight, 

More  bright  the  visions  of  thine  early  years. 
Pilgrim  of  Life  ! why  slackenest  thou  thy  speed  ! 
Why  is  that  brow  of  eager  hope  o’ercast  ? 

A pause — a struggle — ana  the  hour  decreed 
Mingles  for  aye  the  vresent  with  the  past  ! 


TO  A BLIND  CHILD. 


Thou  wreck  of  human  hopes  ! whose  darkened 
eyes 

No  more  behold  the  blue  and  sunny  skies, 
Doomed  in  thy  joyous  childhood’s  early  day 
Blindly  to  grope  along  thy  cheerless  way  ; 

Ere  yet  the  bitter  tear  of  sorrow  streaming 
Had  clouded  those  sweet  orbs,  or  dimmed  their 
beaming, 

It  was  foretold  that  fate — and  now,  alas ! 

The  awful  prophecy  hath  come  to  pass. 

Oh,  thou  unhappy  ! in  thy  infant  hours 
How  glad  thy  parents  watch’d  thy  dawning 
powers  ; 

O’er  thy  young  innocence  enraptured  hung, 
Praised  the  soft  murm’ring  accents  of  thy 
tongue. 


246 


TO  A BLTNr)  child. 


But  from  the  speaking  orbs  that  brightly  shone— 
That  glorious  feature  of  the  human  face, 

That  silent  language  nothing  can  replace. 

They  watched,  as  slowly  stealing,  ray  by  ray, 
That  gentle  light  was  fading  fast  away ; 

And  wept,  in  sad  and  hopeless  agony, 

O’er  the  dimmed  glance  of  thy  half-conscious 
eye. 

At  length  it  ceased,  and  darkness  then  dwelt 
there, 

Unbroken — cheerless — deep  as  their  despair! 
Mournful,  expressionless,  they  turn  to  those 
Who  watched  with  rapture  once  their  lids  un- 
close ; 

And  from  those  darkened  orbs  is  slowly  steal- 
ing 

The  only  trace  now  left  of  earthly  feeling, 

A tear — a silent  tear,  condemned  to  flow 
For  vanished  joys  or  years  of  future  woe. 

Oh  ! far  more  moving  is  that  look  to  me 
I’han  all  the  supplicating  agony — 

I'he  pearly  drops  that  fall  from  Heauty’s  eyes. 
Her  bursting  sobs,  her  low  and  melting  sighs. 
Mourners  there  be  of  whom  we  soothe  the  pain, 
And,  where  we  pity,  pity  not  in  vain ; 

But  here  there  is  a look  which  seems  to  say. 
Thou  canst  do  nought  for  me — we  turn  away 
Sick  at  the  heart.  O thou  lamented  one  ! 
Perchance  long  years  are  thine  to  spend  alone ! 
No  gladsome  child  shall  frolic  by  thy  side. 

Thy  feeble  age  some  stranger  hand  shall  guide ; 
Or  faithful  dog,  with  dumb,  imploring  glance, 


O A BLIND  CHILD. 


247 


Collect  the  half-reluctant  alms : — perchance, 
Wandering  and  weary,  thou  shall  lay  ihy  head 
In  the  poor  shelter  of  some  ruined  shed  ; 

Or  rest  thy  worn-out  form  beneath  a tree, 
While  darken  o’er  thee  skies  thou  canst  not 
see — 

While  dreadful  night  the  trembling  world  en- 
shrouds, 

And  the  hoarse  thunder  struggles  through  the 
clouds. 

Then,  while  the  bitter  blast  is  howling  round. 
Defenceless  thou  shalt  stretch  thee  on  the 
ground ; 

And  cowering  by  his  helpless  master’s  side, 
Like  thee  forsaken,  and  all  help  denied. 

The  sole  companion  of  thy  cheerless  track 
Shake  the  cold  rain-drops  from  his  shivering 
back, 

And  shrinking^  shuddering,  of  the  storm  afraid, 
Seek  aid  from  thee — thou  canst  not  give  him 
aid. 

In  such  an  hour,  perchance,  thou’ It  breathe  thy 
last. 

Thy  dirge  the  moaning  of  the  wintry  blast ! 
Shield,  shield  his  houseless  head,  all-pitying 
Heaven  ! 

When  far  in  eddying  rounds  the  snov/  is  driven  ! 
Whom  man  neglects,  stretch  thou  thy  hand  to 
save. 

Protect  the  transient  life  thy  mercy  gave  ; 


ip  Xo  Let  him  not  die,  nor  leave  one  friend  behind 
^ Vr  echo  those  sad  words — “ Pity  the  poor  old 


blind  1 


MARRIAGE  AND  LOVE. 


1 


The  poorest  peasant  of  the  meanest  soil, 

The  child  of  poverty,  and  heir  to  toil, 

Early,  from  radiant  love’s  impartial  light, 

Steals  one  small  spark  to  cheer  his  world  of  night : 
Dear  spark!  which  oft,  through  winter’s  chilling  woes, 
Is  all  the  warmth  his  littlejcottage  knows  ! 

Sheridan. 


Laura  was  lightsome,  gay,  and  free  from  guile  ; 
Bright  were  her  eyes,  and  beautiful  her  smile ; 
Women  found  fault,  but  men  w'ere  heard  to 
swear 

That  she  was  lovely,  though  she  w’as  not  /air. 
Her  parents  were  not  rich,  nor  very  poor  ; 

She  had  enough,  nor  breathed  a wish  for  more  ; 
Blithe  were  the  mornings,  gay  the  evenings 
spent. 

And  youthful  eyes  smiled  back  a calm  content. 
4tYes,  she  was  happy,  and  she  was  at  rest, 

^ Till  the  world  hiled  with  cares  her  little  breast, 


MARRIAGE  AND  LOVE. 

Taught  her  to  fear  all  dowagers  and  mothers, 
Smile  on  gay  lords,  and  cal  their  younger  broth- 
ers. 

This  last  rule  cost  her  now  and  then  a sigh — 
’Tis  wrong  to  say  so — but  I know  not  why 
Men,  when  they’re  handsome,  are  not  liked  the 
less. 

And  may  be  pleasant,  though  they’re  penny- 
less— 

But  Laura’s  mother  never  would  agree 
That  needy  men  could  pleasant  partners  be  ; 

To  gain  her  favour,  vain  was  all  exertion, 

A younger  brother  was  her  great  aversion. 

The  mother  hoped  and  prayed — her  prayer  was 
granted, 

A lordling  came — the  very  thing  she  wanted — 
“Oh  ! what  a match,  my  dear  !”--and  Laura 
sighed 

And  hung  her  head,  and  timidly  replied, 

“She  did  not  love,” — “What  put  it  in  ycmr  head 
That  it  was  needful  ? — you  are  asked  to  wed — 
Romantic  love  is  all  a childish  folly, 

So  marry,  dear  ! and  don’t  look  melancholy; 
Besides,  you  cannot  always  live  at  home — 
Another  year  your  sister’s  turn  will  come — 

And  you  will  be  so  rich  I — where  shall  we  go  ? 
Let  us  begin  to  think  of  your  trousseau 
And  Laura  laughed,  and  looked  up  at  her 
mother  : 

She  loved  not  him — but  then,  she  loved  no 
other  ! 

Days  passed  away — she  spent  the  last  few  hours 


250 


MARRIAGE  AND  LOVE. 


In  pinning  on  lace  veils  and  orange  flowers; 
With  beating  heart  the  maid  to  church  was  car 
ried, 

And  Laiira  blushed,  and  trembled,  and — was 
married  ! 

Quickly  the  happy  couple  sped  away. 

And  friends’  congratulations  end  the  day. 
“Sweet  girl ! how  well  she  look’d  ! dress’d  with 
such  care  ! 

How  the  rich  veil  became  her  face  and  hair  ! 

A lovely  woman,  certainly,” — and  Laura 
Left  friends  behind,  with  all  the  world  before 
her  ! 

Dwelt  for  a while  (remembrance  sad  and 
strong  !) 

In  Laura’s  mind  her  little  brother’s  song — 

The  quick  light  step— the  blue  and  sparkling 
eye. 

The  bright  perfection  of  his  infancy — 

Her  sister’s  gentle  smile — all  these  arise. 

Whilst  damp’d  her  wedding  veil  her  weeping 
eyes  ; 

But  soon  consoled,  again  the  maid  grew  gay, 
Swift  in  amusement  flew  each  busy  day  ; 

The  country  seat  was  exquisite  ; she  found 
New  beauties  every  time  she  looked  around  ; 
The  lawn  so  green,  so  smooth,  so  sunny  too, 
The  flowers  so  bright,  the  heavens  of  such  a 
blue  ! — 

“Oh  ! this  was  happiness !” — It  might  have  been, 
Had  there  been  no  reverse  of  this  fair  scene. 


MARRIAGE  AND  LOVE.  25* 

But  Laura’s  lord  was  not  what  lords  should 
be ; — 

Cold,  harsh,  unfeeling,  proud,  alas!  was  he — 
And  yet  a very  fool — had  he  been  stern. 

She  would  have  tried  the  tyrant’s  will  to  learn — 
Had  he  been  passionate,  she  still  had  loved — 
Or  jealous,  time  her  virtue  would  have  proved  ; 
But,  as  he  was,  without  a soul  or  mind, 

Too  savage  e’en  to  be  in  seeming  kind — 

The  slave  of  petty  feelings,  every  hour 
He  changed  his  will,  to  show  he  had  the  power  ; 
And  Laura  wept,  that  she  had  linked  her  fate 
With  one  too  cold  to  love,  too  mean  to  hate. 

A mother’s  hopes  were  left  her,  and  she  said, 
‘My  child,  at  least,  will  love  me  !’  days,  months, 
sped — 

She  watched  the  grave,  and  wept  the  early  dead ! 
The  scene  was  changed  : nought  pleases  Laura 
now, 

Nor  sunny  sky,  nor  richly  sweeping  bough  ; 

At  the  long  window,  opening  to  the  ground. 

She  sits,  while  evening  spreads  its  shadows 
round  ; 

Or  through  the  glowing  noon,  for  weary  hours, 
Watches  the  bees  that  flutter  o’er  the  flowers  ; 
Or  when  the  moon  is  up,  and  stars  are  out, 

She  leaves  her  lonely  room  to  roam  about  ; 

And  while  the  night  breezo  murmurs  o’er  her 
head. 

Upbraids  the  living,  or  bewails  the  dead  ! 

Both  are  alike  insensible — her  mate, 

Weary  of  home,  hath  left  her  to  her  fate  ; 


252 


MARRIA&E  AND  LOVE. 


Nor  recks  he  now  that  Laura  weeps  or  sighs. 

So  he  enjoy  what  Heaven  to  her  denies. 

But  there  was  one  who  thought  eyes  blue  and 
deep, 

Like  Laura’s  were  too  beautiful  to  weep  ; 
Perchance  he  told  her  so — perchance  she  guessed 
He  deemed  her  lovelier  than  his  words  express- 
ed— 

A cousin  he  of  Laura’s  moody  lord, 

But  how  unlike  him  ! — every  gentle  word 
Andgentlier  tone — the  song,  the  walk,  the  book, 
The  graceful  step,  the  bright  expressive  look. 
Awoke  in  her  a deep  and  sad  regret 
Of  what  he  might  have  been — ah  ! might  be 
yet ! 

And  yet  she 'struggled  with  her  yielding  heart — 
’Twas  sin  to  meet — but  oh  ! ’twas  grief  to  part ! 
He  never  said  he  loved  her — could  she  cry, 

“ Francis  ! you  love  me  ; Francis  ; you  must 
fly  ?*’ 

Perchance  he  loved  her  not — Alas  ! too  well 
Each  knew  the  passion  neither  dared  to  tell. 
Mute  would  they  stand,  upon  some  summer  eve, 
With  melancholy  rapture,  prone  to  grieve  ; 
Then,  trembling,  gaze  upon  each  other’s  eyes, 
The  heaven  of  each,  more  worshipped  than  the 
skies. 

Her  lord  returned — ^he  saw  her  flushing  cheek. 
Her  vain  attempt  to  smile,  or  freely  speak  ; 
“Thou  hast  been  false  ! Pll  know  the  truth,’’ 
He  cried  in  fury — “Who’s  the  favour’d  youth? 


MARRIAGE  AND  LOVE.  253 

Wretcli ! I will  tear  the  minion  limb  from 
limb  ■” 

But  Laura’s  heart  was  full,  her  eye  was  dim  : 
She  answered  not,  with  faint,  slow  step  with- 
drew, 

Of  Francis  thought — and  then  to  Francis  flew. 
“Thou  knowest — God  knows!” — no  more  the 
maiden  said, 

But  on  his  shoulders  dropped  her  sobbing  head  ; 
And  Francis,  as  his  arm  was  cast  around  her 
(The  first  wild  moment  that  fond  arm  e’er 
bound  her). 

Murmured, — “ My  love  ! my  life!  what,  if  we 
flee  ? 

The  world  ! — the  world ! — what  is  that  world  to 
me  1 

Thou  art  my  world — I,  thine — ” and  her  reply 
Was  but  a stifled  sound — half  sob,  half  sigh. 
***** 

Oh  ! it  is  wretched,  when  the  loss  of  fame 
Hath  left  us  but  the  shadow  of  a name — 

W^hen  all  forget  us,  all  refuse  to  own, 

And  life  is  journey’d  on,  alone — alone  ! 

’Tis  bitter  then  to  see  the  flame  of  love, 

The  only  link  for  which  we  still  would  prove 
Life’s  withering  joys,  expiring  spark  by  spark, 
Till  all  extinct,  and  we  left  lone  and  dark  ! 

Thus  Francis’  love  consumed  itself  away, 

While  mournful  Laura  drooped  from  day  to 
day — 

Her  graceful  Francis,  all  his  passion  o’er. 
Grieved  she  had  fallen  to  rise  again  no  more — 


254  MAHRIAGE  AND  LOVE. 

Grieved  that  harsh  scorn  should  hail  her  blighted 
aame, 

Grieved  that  she  had  felt  and  saw  he  felt  her 
shame. 

At  length  he  shunned  her,  and  poor  Laura 
sighed, 

Murmured  repentant  prayers  to  Heaven — and 
died. 

And  then  no  more  her  Francis  blamed  the  wife 

Who  left  her  mate  to  lead  a guilty  life  ; 

No  more  he  feels,  what  fond  proud  hearts  must 
feel, 

Who  blush  for  those  whose  wounds  they  cannot 
heal. 

But  turned  with  fond  regret,  and  useless  call, 

To  her  who  with  him  had  abandoned  all ! 

4:  * % 4:  :ic 

And  Francis,  loved  again,  is  happy  now ; 

For  he  hath  chosen  him  a gentle  bride. 

With  gay  light  heart,  and  pure  and  placid  brow, 
Unused  to  grief,  and  impotent  to  chide. 

But  hapless  Laura,  where  is  she  the  while  ? 

The  light  gay  form  is  mouldering  in  the  grave  ; 

The  full  and  rosy  lip  hath  ceased  to  smile, 

And  all  is  gone  which  bounteous  Nature  gave; 

Pulseless  the  heart,  and  spiritless  the  eye, 
Whence  flashed  a soul  for  better  feelings 
framed  ; 

The  eloquent  tongue  with  dust  is  choked  and  dry: 
She  sinned— she  w'ept — and  is  no  more  asham- 
ed. 


THE  WANDERER  LOOKING  INTO 
OTHER  HOMES. 


A LONE,  wayfaring  wretch  I saw,  who  stood 
Wearily  pausing  by  the  wicket  gate  ; 

And  from  his  eyes  there  streamed  a bitter  flood, 
Contrasting  his  with  many  a happier  fate. 
Bleak  howled  the  wind,  the  sleety  shower  fel’ 
fast 

On  his  bare  head,  and  scanty-covered  breast; 
As  through  the  village  with  quick  step  I past. 
To  find  sweet  shelter  in  my  home  of  rest. 

Oh ! that  I too  could  call  a home  my  own  !” 
Said  the  lone  wanderer,  as  he  wistful  gazed 
Through  the  clear  lattice,  on  the  hearth’s  wide 
stone. 

Where  cheerily  the  jocund  fire  blazed. 

“ Oh  ! that  I too,  in  such  a cot  might  dwell ! 
Where  the  bright  homefire  blazeth  clear  and 
high  ; 

Where  joy  alone  my  grateful  heart  might  swell, 
And  children’s  children  bless  me  when  I 
die !”  * 


256 


2 HE  WANDERER. 


Little  he  deemed  what  bitterness  was  there, 
Who  murmured  thus  his  aspirations  vain, — 
Little  he  deemed  that  one  as  fond  as  fair 
Lay  I’aintly  sighing  on  a bed  of  pain  ; 

And  by  her  side,  a restless  vigil  keeping, 

One  who  had  deeply  wronged  that  gentle 
heart — 

Knelt  with  clasped  hands;  now  praying,  and 
now  weeping ; 

Dreading,  each  hour,  to  see  the  soul  depart. 

They  were  two  sisters  jealous  love  had  twained ; 

And  one  had  slandered  her  who  faded  lay, 
Because  she  deemed  her  slighted  love  dis- 
dained : 

And  he  they  both  had  loved  was  far  away : 
And  from  that  hour,  the  younger  drooped  and 
pined. 

Like  a pale  snowdrop  bowing  down  her  head  ; 
Joyless  of  life — to  slow  disease  resigned — 

The  heart  within  her  w’as  already  dead. 

Here,  for  her  sake,  they  woo  the  mountain 
gale. 

If,  haply,  change  may  yet  prevent  her  fate. 
But  he,  the  wanderer,  knew  not  of  this  tale. 
And  humbly  sues  admittance  at  their  gate. 
He  enters,  what  hath  met  his  eager  eyes  ? 

Pale  as  the  white-fringed  drapery  spread  be- 
neath. 

His  early  loved,  his  sorely  slandered,  lies, 


THE  WANDERER.  26? 

Heaving  with  pain  her  faint  and  quickened 
breath. 

O’er  her  soft  arm  her  long,  dark,  glossy  hair 
Floats  in  unbraided  beauty, — and  her  cheek, — 
Ah,  me  ! the  deeply-crimsoned  tinge  is  there, 
That  of  sharp  woe  and  early  death  doth 
speak. 

How  beautiful,  beneath  her  drooping  eye. 

The  glowing  hectic  of  that  cheek  appears. 
Where  the  long  lashes  like  soft  shadows  lie. 
Seeking  in  vain  to  prison  back  her  tears. 

She  gazes — shrieks—’ tis  he ! at  length  His  he. 
Whom  dreams  and  waking  thoughts  have 
brought  in  vain ! 

And  must  she  die,  e’er  yet  from  sorrow  free. 
Her  head  hath  rested  on  his  heart  again  ? 

A few  slow,  bitter  words  of  wild  appeal — 

Of  earnest  explanation  faintly  given — 

A pressure,  which  his  hand  can  scarcely  feel. 
And  her  freed  soul  is  on  its  way  to  heaven . 

So,  wanderers  in  the  world  may  pausing  gaze 
Upon  some  radiant  form  with  smiles  of  light. 
And  seeing  but  the  outward  beam  that  plays, 
Envy  their  joys — and  deem  that  all  is  britrht. 
The  homes  of  other  hearts  ! oh  ! yet  beware, 
Ye,  who  with  friendly  guise  would  ent<;r  in. 


258 


music’s  power. 


Lest  all  be  false, — and  ye  be  doomed  to  share 
Their  guilt  or  woe — their  sadnees  or  their 
sin! 


MUSIC’S  POWER. 


Have  you  never  heard,  in  music’s  sound, 
Some  chords  which  o’er  your  heart 
First  fling  a moment’s  magic  round, 

Then  silently  depart  ? 

But  with  the  echo  on  the  air. 

Roused  by  that  simple  lay. 

It  leaves  a world  of  feeling  there 
We  cannot  chase  away. 

Yes,  yes, — a sound  hath  power  to  bid  them 
come — 

Youth’s  half-forgotten  hopes,  childhood’s  ro 
membered  home. 

When  sitting  in  your  silent  home 
You  gaze  around  and  weep. 

Or  call  to  those  who  cannot  come 
Nor  wake  from  dreamless  sleep; 

Those  chords,  as  oft  as  you  bemoan 
“ The  distant  and  the  dead,” 

Bring  dimly  back  the  fancied  tone 


THE  FAITHLESS  KNIGHT. 

Of  some  sweet  voice  that’s  fled ! 

Yes,  yes, — a sound  hath  power  to  bid  them 
come — 

Youth’s  half-forgotten  hopes,  childhood’s  re- 
membered home. 

And  when,  amid  the  festal  throng. 

You  are,  or  would  be  gay — 

And  seek  to  while,  with  dance  and  song. 
Your  sadder  thoughts  away  ; 

They  strike  those  chords  and  smiles  depart. 
As,  rushing  o’er  your  soul. 

The  untold  feelings  of  the  heart 
Awake,  and  spurn  control ! 

Yes,  yes, — a sound  hath  power  to  bid  them 
come — 

Youth’s  half- forgotten  hopes,  childhood’s  re- 
membered home. 


THE  FAITHLESS  KNIGHT. 


The  lady  she  sate  in  her  bower  alone. 

And  she  gaz’d  from  the  lattice  window  high, 
r Where  a white  steed’s  hoofs  were  ringing  on. 
With  a beating  heart,  and  a smother’d  sigh. 
Why  doth  she  gaze  thro’  the  sunset  rays — 
Why  doth  she  watch  that  white  steed’s  track — 
While  a quivering  smile  on  her  red  lip  plays  ? 
’Tis  her  own  dear  knight — will  he  not  look  back  ? 


260 


FAREWELL. 


The  Steed  flew  fast— and  the  rider  past — 

Nor  paus’d  he  to  gaze  at  the  lady’s  bower ; 

The  smile  from  her  lip  is  gone  at  last — 

There  are  tears  on  her  cheek — like  the  dew  on 
a flower ! 

And  “ plague  on  these  foolish  tears,”  she  said, 

“ Which  have  dimm’d  the  view  of  my  young 
love’s  track ; 

For  oh ! I am  sure,  while  I bent  my  head, 

It  was  then — it  was  then  that  my  knight  look’d 
back.” 

On  flew  that  steed  with  an  arrow’s  speed  ; 

He  is  gone — and  the  green  boughs  wave  between: 
And  she  sighs,  as  the  sweet  breeze  sighs  through 
a reed. 

As  she  watches  the  spot  where  he  last  has  been. 
Oh  ! many  a sun  shall  rise  and  set, 

And  many  an  hour  may  she  watch  in  vain 
And  many  a tear  shall  that  soft  cheek  wet, 

Ere  that  steed  and  its  rider  return  again ! 


FAREWELL. 


Farewell!  in  tearless  agony  I part ! 

Beloved,  the  pang  can  cost  thee  little  now; 

The  thought  of  triumph  dwells  within  thy  heart, 
The  smile  of  triumph  plays  around  thy  brow. 


But  oh ! when  that  is  gone,  when  Time  hath 
dimmed, 

(If  Time  must  diirn)  the  glories  of  thine  eye  ; 

When  the  full  cup  of  joy,  which  now  is  brimmed, 

Drained  by  thine  eager  spirit,  shaH  be  dry  ; 

When  snows  have  mingled  in  the  locks  of  youth, 

And  passion’s  power  no  more  thy  heart  can 
warm  ; 

Where  the  cold  world  shines  forth  in  sorrow’s 
truth, 

And  life  itself  is  but  a broken  charm  ; 

When  the  bright  sun  which  gilds  thy  day  is  set, 

A star’s  faint  lustre  may  resume  its  reign  ; 

I am  contented  that  thou  should’ st  forget — 

All  love  thee  now^  but  I will  love  thee  then. 


WAS  NOT  FALSE  TO  THEE. 


I WAS  not  false  to  thee^  and  yet 
My  cheek  alone  looked  pale  ; 

My  weary  eye  was  dim  and  wet, 

My  strength  began  to  fail. 

Thou  wert  the  same  ; thy  looks  were  gay, 
Thy  step  was  light  and  free ; 

And  yet,  with  truth,  my  heart  can  say, 

I was  not  false  to  thee  / 


6 


LA  / ® 


262  OH  ! LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  RILL, 

I was  not  false  to  thee,  yet  now 
Thou  hast  a cheerful  eye, 

With  flushing  cheek  and  drooping  brow 
I wander  mournfully. 

I hate  to  meet  the  gaze  of  men, 

I weep  w'here  none  can  see ; 

Why  do  7 only  suffer,  when 
I was  not  false  to  thee  ? 

I was  not  false  to  thee  ; yet  oh  ! 

How  scornfully  they  smile. 

Who  see  me  droop,  who  guess  my  woe, 

Y et  court  thee  all  the  while. 

’Tis  strange  ! but  when  long  years  are  past, 
Thou  wilt  remember  me ; 

Whilst  I can  feel  until  the  last, 

I was  not  false  to  thee  / 


OH!  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER 
RILL. 


Oh  ! life  is  like  the  summer  rill,  where  weary 
daylight  dies ; 

We  long  for  morn  to  rise  again,  and  blush  along 
the  skies. 

For  dull  and  dark  that  stream  appears,  whose 
waters,  in  the  day. 


OH  ! LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  RILL.  263 

All  glad  in  conscious  sunniness,  went  dancing 
on  their  way. 

But  when  the  glorious  sun  hath  *woke  and 
looked  upon  the  earth, 

And  over  hill  and  dale  there  float  the  sounds  of 
human  mirth ; 

We  sigh  to  see  day  hath  not  brought  its  perfect 
light  to  all. 

For  with  the  sunshine  on  those  waves,  the  si- 
lent shadows  fall. 

Oh ! like  that  changeful  summer  rill,  our  years 
go  gliding  by, 

Now  bright  with  joy,  now  dark  with  tears,  be- 
fore youth’s  eager  eye. 

And  thus  we  vainly  pant  for  all  the  rich  and 
golden  glow,  • 

Which  young  hope,  like  an  early  sun,  upon  its 
course  can  throw. 

Soon  o’er  our  half-illumined  hearts  the  stealing 
shadows  come. 

And  every  thought  that  woke  in  light  receives 
its  share  of  gloom. 

And  we  weep  while  joys  and  sorrows  both  are 
fading  from  our  view, 

To  find,  wherever  sunbeams  fall,  the  shadow 
cometh  too  I 


THE  NAME, 


“ What’s  in  a name  Shakspeare.’ 


Thy  name  was  once  the  magic  spell,  by  which 
my  thoughts  were  bound, 

And  burning  dreams  of  light  and  love  were 
wakened  by  that  sound  *, 

My  heart  beat  quick  when  stranger  tongues, 
with  idle  praise  or  blame. 

Awoke  its  deepest  thrill  of  life,  to  tremble  at 
that  name. 


Long  years — long  years  have  passed  away,  ’ind 
altered  is  thy  brow  ; 

And  we  who  met  so  gladly  once,  must  meet  as 
strangers  now ; 

The  friends  of  yore  come  round  me  still,  but 
talk  no  more  of  thee  ; 

*Tis  idle  ev’n  to  wish  it  now — for  what  art  thou 
to  wie? 

264 


1 

■L  y 

A 


THE  ONE  YOU  LOVED  THE  BEST.  265 

Yet  Still  thy  name,  thy  blessed  name,  my  lonely 
bosom  fills, 

Like  an  echo  that  hath  lost  itself  among  the  dis- 
tant hills. 

Which  still,  with  melancholy  note,  keeps  faintly 
lingering  on. 

When  the  jocund  sound  that  woke  it  first  is 
gone — for  ever  gone. 


THE  ONE  YOU  LOVED  THE  BEST. 


Oh  ! love — love  well,  but  only  once!  for  never 
shall  the  dream 

Of  youthful  hope  return  again  on  life’s  dark  roll- 
ing stream — ■ 

No  love  can  match  the  early  one  which  young 
affection  nurs’d ; 

Oh,  no — the  one  you  loved  the  best,  is  she  you 
loved  the  first. 

Once  lost — that  gladsome  vision  past — a fairer 
form  may  rise. 

And  eyes  whose  lustre  mocks  the  light  of  starry 
southern  skies. 

But  vainly  seek  you  to  enshrine  the  charmer  in 
your  breast. 

For  still  the  one  you  loved  the  first,  is  she  you 


266  THE  PURPLE  AND  WHITE  CARNATION. 

Again — ’tis  gone — ’tis  past  away — those  gentle 
tones  and  looks 

Have  vanished  like  the  feathery  snow  in  sum- 
mer’s running  brooks ; 

With  weary  pinions  wandermg  love  forsakes  the 
heart,  his  nest, 

And  fain  would  rest  again  with  her  whom  first 
you  loved,  and  best. 

Perchance  some  faithful  one  is  found,  when  love’s 
romance  is  o’er, 

With  her  you  safe  through  storms  may  glide,  to 
reach  life’s  farthest  shore  ; 

But  all  too  cold  and  real  now  you  deem  your 
home  of  rest, 

And  you  sigh  for  her  you  loved  the  first — for  her 
you  loved  the  best. 


THE  PURPLE  AND  WHITE 
CARNATION. 

A FABLE. 


T’was  a bright  May  morn,  and  each  opemng 
flov/er 

Lay  sunning  itself  in  Flora’s  bower  ; 

Young  Love,  who  was  fluttering  round,  espied 
The  blossoms  so  gay  in  their  painted  pride  ; 


THE  PURPLE  AND  WHITE  CARNATION.  267 

And  he  gazed  on  the  point  of  a feathered  dart, 
For  mischief  had  filled  the  boy-god’s  heart ; 
And  laughed  as  his  bowstring  of  silk  he  drew, 
And  away  that  arrow  at  random  flew : 

Onward  it  sped  like  a ray  of  light, 

And  fell  on  a flower  of  virgin  white, 

Which  glanced  all  snowy  and  pure  at  the  sun, 
And  wept  when  his  glorious  course  was  run  : 
Two  little  drops  on  its  pale  leaves  lay 
Pure  as  pearls,  but  with  diamond  ray, 

(Like  the  tear  on  Beauty’s  lid  of  snow. 

Which  waits  but  Compassion  to  bid  it  flow  ;) 

It  rested,  that  dart ; and  its  pointed  tip 
Sank  deep  where  the  bees  were  wont  to  sip  ; 
And  the  sickening  flower  gazed  with  grief 
On  the  purple  stains  which  dimmed  each  leaf. 
And  the  crystal  drops  on  its  leaves  that  stood 
Blushed  with  sorrow  and  shame  till  they  turned 
to  blood. 

It  chanced  that  Flora,  wandering  by, 

Beheld  her  flow’ ret  droop  and  die  ; 

And  Love  laughed  in  scorn  at  the  flower-queen’s 
woe. 

As  she  vainly  shook  its  leaves  of  snow. 

Fled  from  her  lip  was  the  smile  of  fight : — 

* ‘ Oh  ! who  hath  worked  thee  this  fell  despite  ! 
Thou  who  did’ St  harm,  alas  ! to  none. 

But  joyed’st  all  day  in  the  beams  of  the  sun  !” 

“ ’Twas  Love  I”  said  the  flower,  and  a scented 
sigh 

Loaded  the  gale  that  murmured  by. 


268  rilE  PURPLE  AND  WftITE  CARNATIONr 

*Twas  Love  ! and  the  dew-drops  that  blushed 
on  the  wound 

Sank  slow  and  sad  to  the  pitying  ground. 

“ ’Twas  Love  !”  said  Flora  : “ accursed  be  the 
power 

That  could  blight  the  bloom  of  so  fair  a flower, 
With  whispers  and  smiles  he  wins  Beauty’s  ears 
But  he  leaves  her  nothing  save  grief  and  tears. 
Ye  gods!  shall  he  bend  with  such  tyranny  still 
The  weak  and  the  strong  to  his  wanton  will  ? 

No  ! the  hearts  that  he  joins  may  rude  discord 
sever ; 

Accursed  be  his  power  for  ever  and  ever.” 

She  spoke,  and  wept ; and  the  echo  again 
Repeated  the  curse,  but  all  in  vain — 

The  tyrant  laughed  as  he  fluttered  away, 
Spreading  his  rainbow  wings  to  the  day, 

And  settling  at  random  his  feathered  darts 
To  spoil  sweet  flowers,  or  break  fond  hearts. 

He  fled — and  the  queen  o’er  her  flower  in  vain 
Poured  the  evening  dew  and  the  April  rain, 

The  purple  spots  on  her  heart  still  w^ere. 

And  she  said,  as  she  wept  her  fruitless  care, 

“ The  blight  and  the  stain  may  be  washed 
away. 

But  what  Love  hath  ruined  must  sink  in  decay.” 

And  she  sent  it  on  earth,  to  dwell  below 
In  the  autumn  fog  and  the  winter  snow. 

And  even,  'tis  said,  on  summer  eves 


O’er  that  sad  lost  flower  she  wails  and  grieves  ; 
And  the  drops  that  by  mortals  as  dew  are  seen 
Are  the  tears  of  the  morning  flower-queen. 

And  when  men  are  gazing  with  fond  delight 
On  its  varied  leaves,  and  call  them  bright, 

And  praise  the  velvet  tints,  and  say 
There  never  was  flower  more  pure  and  gay 
That  flow’ret  says,  as  it  droops  its  head, 

“ Alas  ! for  the  day  when  by  love  I bled  ; 
When  my  feathery  flowers  were  pure  and  white, 
And  my  leaves  had  no  earthly  stain  or  blight. 
When  no  chilling  blasts  around  me  blew. 

And  in  Flora’s  garden  of  light  I grew. 

Oh  ! the  blight  and  the  stain  may  be  washed 
away. 

But  what  Love  hath  ruined  must  sink  in  decay.” 


THE  BRIDE. 


She  is  standing  by  her  loved  one’s  side, 
A young  and  a fair  and  a gentle  bride. 
But  mournfulness  hath  cross’d  her  face 
Like  shadows  in  a sunny  place. 

And  wistfully  her  eye  doth  strain 
Across  the  blue  and  distant  main. 

My  home  ! my  home  ! — I would  I were 
Again  in  joyous  gladness  there 


270 


THE  BRIDE. 


My  home  ! my  home  ! — I would  I heard 
The  singing  voice,  like  some  small  bird. 

Of  him,  our  mother’s  youngest  child. 

With  light  soft  step,  and  features  mild. — 

I would  I saw  that  dear  one  now. 

With  the  proud  eye  and  noble  brow, 

Whose  very  errors  were  more  loved 
Than  all  our  reason  most  approved. 

And  she,  my  fairy  sister,  she. 

Who  was  the  soul  of  childish  glee  ; 

Who  loved  me  so — oh,  let  me  hear 
Once  more  those  tones  familiar,  dear. 

Which  haunt  my  rest ; and  I will  smile 
Even  as  I used  to  do  erewhile. 

I know  that  some  have  fall’n  asleep — 

I know  that  some  have  learnt  to  weep — 

But  my  heart  never  feels  the  same 
As  when  those  light  steps  round  me  came 
And  sadness  weighs  my  heavy  eye 
Beneath  this  cheerless  stranger  sky  : 

Tho’  fewer  now  might  round  me  come — 

It  is  my  home — my  own  old  home  ! 

She  is  back  again  in  her  sunny  home, 

And  thick  and  fast  the  beatings  come 
Of  that  young  heart,  as  round  she  sees 
The  same  sweet  flowers,  the  same  old  trees; 
But  they,  the  living  flowers  she  loved. 

Are  they  the  same  ? are  they  unmoved  ? — 

No — time  which  withers  leaf  and  stem 
Hath  thrown  his  withering  change  o’er  them. 
Where  there  was  mirth,  is  silence  now — 


THE  BRIDE. 


271 


Where  there  was  joy,  a darkened  brow — 

The  bounding  step  hath  given  place 
To  the  slow  stealing  mournful  pace  ; 

The  proud  bright  eye  is  now  less  proud, 

By  time  and  thought,  and  sickness  bowed. 
And  the  light  singing  voice  no  more 
Its  joyful  carols  echoes  o’er, 

But  whispers ; fearful  some  gay  tone 
May  wake  the  thought  of  pleasures  gone. 

It  is  her  home — but  all  in  vain 
Some  lingering  things  unchanged  remain : 
The  present  wakes  no  smile — the  past 
Hath  tears  to  bid  its  memory  last. 

She  knew  that  some  were  gone — but  oh  ! 

She  knew  not — youth  can  never  know 
How  furrowed  o’er  with  silent  thought 
Are  brows  which  grief  and  time  have  taught. 
The  murmuring  of  some  shadowy  word. 
Which  was  a name — which  now,  unheard, 
May  wander  thro’  the  clear  cold  sky, 

Or  wake  the  echo  for  reply ; 

The  lingering  pause  in  some  bright  spot 
To  dream  of  those  who  now  are  not : 

The  gaze  that  vainly  seeks  to  trace 
Lost  feelings  beaming  on  a face 
Where  time  and  sorrow,  guilt  and  care. 

Have  past  and  left  there  withering  there 
These  are  her  joys  ; and  she  doth  roam 
Around  her  dear  but  desert  home ; 

Peopling  the  vacant  seals,  till  tears  arise. 

And  blot  the  dim  sweet  vision  from  her  eyes. 


FIRST  LOVE. 


Y Es,  I know  that  you  once  were  my  lover, 
But  that  sort  of  thing  has  an  end, 

And  though  love  and  its  transports  are  over. 
You  know  you  can  still  be — my  friend  : 

I was  young,  too,  and  foolish,  remember ; 
(Did  you  ever  hear  John  Hardy  sing  ?) 

It  was  then,  the  fifteenth  of  November, 

And  this  is  the  end  of  the  Spring  ! 

Y ou  complain  that  you  are  not  well-treated 
By  my  suddenly  altering  so  ; 

Can  I help  it  ? — you’re  very  conceited. 

If  you  think  yourself  equal  to  Joe. 

Don’t  kneel  at  my  feet,  I implore  you  ; 
Don’t  write  on  the  drawings  you  bring  ; 
Don’t  ask  me  to  say,  I adore  you,” 

For,  indeed,  it  is  now  no  such  thing. 

I confess,  when  at  Bognor  we  parted, 

I swore  that  I worshipped  you  then— 

That  I was  a maid  broken-hearted, 

And  you  the  most  charming  of  men. 

I confess,  when  I read  your  first  letter, 


272 


FIRST  LOVE. 


r blotted  your  name  with  a tear — 

But,  oh  ! I was  young — knew  no  better, 
Could  I tell  that  I’d  meet  Hardy  here  ? 

How  dull  you  are  grown  ! how  you  worry, 
Repeating  my  vows  to  be  true — 

If  I said  so,  I told  you  a story. 

For  I love  Hardy  better  than  you  ! 

Yes  ! my  fond  heart  has  fixed  on  another, 

(I  sigh  so  whenever  he’s  gone,) 

I shall  always  love  you — as  a Irother, 

But  my  heart  is  John  Hardy’s  alone. 

18 


SONNETS, 


SONNET  L 


ON  SiEINa  THE  BUST  OF  THE  YOUNG  PRINCESS 
BE  MONTFORT. 

(In  the  studio  of  Bartolini,  at  Florence.) 


Sweet  marble  ! didst  thou  merely  represent, 

In  lieu  of  her  on  whom  our  glances  rest, 
Some  common  loveliness, — we  were  content, 
As  with  a modell’d  beauty,  well  express’d  ; 
But,  by  the  very  skill  which  makes  thee  seem 
So  like  HER  bright  and  intellectual  face, 

The  heart  is  led  unsatisfied  to  dream ; 

For  sculpture  cannot  give  the  breathing  grace. 
The  light  which  plays  beneath  that  shadowy 
brow. 

Like  sunshine  on  the  fountains  of  the  south,— 
The  blush  which  tints  that  cheek  with  roseate 
glow,— 

The  smile  which  hovers  round  that  angel- 
mouth  : 


274 


BONNETTS.  275 

No ! such  the  form  o’er  which  Pygmalion 
sigh’d — 

Too  fair  to  be  complete  while  soul  was  still  de- 
nied ! 


SONNET  TL 

RAPHAEL. 


Bless’d  wert  thou,  whom  Death,  and  not 
Decay, 

Bore  from  fhe  world  on  swift  and  shadowy 
wings. 

Ere  age  or  weakness  dimm’d  one  brilliant  ray 
Of  thy  rapt  spirit’s  high  imaginings  ! 

While  yet  thy  heart  was  full  of  fervid  love. 

And  thou  wert  haunted  by  resistless  dreams 
Of  all  in  earth  beneath,  or  Heaven  above. 

On  which  the  light  ot  beauty  richest  gleams. 
Dead,  but  not  deathlike,  wert  thou  borne  along; 

Silent  and  cold,  oh  thou  that  didst  combine 
Sculpture,  and  painting,  and  the  gift  of  song  ; 

While  on  thy  brow,  and  on  that  work  divine* 
Born  with  thee,  glow’d  from  thine  Italian  sky, 
A light  whose  glory  spoke  of  immortality  ! 


* The  celebrated  picture  of  the  Transfiguration  (at 
which  Raphael  is  said  to  have  worked  the  evening  be- 
fore his  death)  was  borne  at  the  bier-head  in  the  pro- 
cession of  his  funeral. 


SONNET  III. 
THE  FORNARINA. 


And  bless’ d was  she  thou  lovedst,  for  whose 
sake 

Thy  wit  did  veil  in  fanciful  disguise 
The  answer  which  thou  wertcompell’d  to  make 
To  Rome’s  High  Priest,  and  call’d  her  then 
“ Thine  Eyes 

Tho’  of  her  life  obscure  there  is  no  trace, 

Save  where  its  thread  with  thy  bright  history 
twines, — 

Tho’  all  we  know  of  her  be  that  sweet  face 
Whose  nameless  beauty  from  thy  canvass 
shines, — 

Dependant  still  upon  her  Raphael’s  fame, 

And  but  recorded  by  her  low  degree. 

As  one  who  had  in  life  no  higher  claim 
Than  to  be  painted  and  be  loved  by  thee  ; — 
Yet  would  I be  forgot,  as  she  is  now, 

Once  to  have  press’d  my  lips  on  that  seraphic 
brow  ! 


* Leo  X.,  visiting  Raphael  in  his  studio,  and  seeing 
there  the  Fornarina,  asked  who  and  what  she  was  1 
the  painter  replied,  “ Son  ? i miei  occhi.” 


276 


SONNET  IV. 


Be  frank  with  me,  and  I accept  my  lot 
But  deal  not  with  me  ? a grieving  child. 
Who  for  the  loss  of  that  hich  he  hath  not 
Is  by  a show  of  kindn  ss  thus  beguiled. 

Raise  not  for  me,  from  its  enshrouded  tomb, 
The  ghostly  likeness  of  a hope  deceased  ; 
Nor  think  to  cheat  the  darkness  of  my  doom 
By  wavering  doubts  how  far  thou  art  released: 
This  dressing  Pity  in  the  garb  of  Love, — 

This  effort  of  the  heart  to  seem  the  same, — ■ 
These  sighs  and  lingerings,  (which  nothing 
prove 

But  that  thou  leav’st  me  with  a kind  of 
shame,) — 

Remind  me  more,  by  their  most  vain  deceit, 

Of  the  dear  loss  of  all  which  thou  dost  counter- 
feit. 


SONNET  V. 


Because  I know  that  there  is  that  in  me 

Of  which  thou  shouldst  be  proud,  and  not 
ashamed, — 


277 


278 


SONNETS. 


Because  I feel  one  made  thy  choice  should  be 
Not  even  by  fools  and  slanderers  rashly 
blame, — 

Because  I fear,  howe’er  thy  soul  may  strive 
Against  the  weakness  of  that  inward  pain, 
The  falsehoods  which  my  enemies  contrive 
Not  always  seek  to  wound  thine  ear  in  vain, — 
Therefore  I sometimes  weep,  when  I should 
smile. 

At  all  the  vain  frivolity  and  sin 
Which  those  who  know  me  not  (yet  me  re- 
vile)— 

My  would-be  judges — cast  my  actions  in  ; 
But  else  their  malice  hath  nor  sting  nor  smart — 
For  I appeal  from  them.  Beloved,  to  thine  own 
heart ! 


SONNET  VI. 


V/ HERE  the  red-wine  cup  floweth,  there  art  thou! 

Where  luxury  curtains  out  the  evening  sky; — 
Triumphant  Mirth  sits  flush’d  upon  thy  brow, 
And  ready  laughter  lurks  within  thine  eye 
Where  the  long  day  declineth,  lone  I sit. 

In  idle  thought,  my  listless  hands  entwined. 
And,  faintly  smiling  at  remember’d  wit. 

Act  the  scene  over  to  my  musing  mind. 

In  my  lone  dreams  I hear  thy  eloquent  voice 
I see  the  pleased  attention  of  the  throng, 


SONNETS. 


279 


And  bid  my  spirit  in  thy  joy  rejoice, 

Lest  in  love’s  selfishness  I do  thee  wrong. 

Ah  ! midst  that  proud  and  mirthful  company 
Send’ St  thou  no  wandering  thought  to  love  and 
me  ? 


SONNET  VII. 


Like  an  enfranchised  bird,  who  wildly  springs, 
With  a keen  sparkle  in  his  glancing  eye 
And  a strong  effort  in  his  quivering  wiQgs, 

Up  to  the  blue  vault  of  the  happy  sky, — 

So  my  enamour’d  heart,  so  long  thine  own. 

At  length  from  Love’s  imprisonment  set  free, 
Goes  forth  into  the  open  world  alone, 

Glad  and  exulting  in  its  liberty : 

But  like  that  helpless  bird,  (confined  so  long, 
His  weary  wings  have  lost  all  power  to  soar. 
Who  soon  forgets  to  trill  his  joyous  song, 

And,  feebly  fluttering,  sinks  to  earth  once 
more, — 

So,  from  its  former  bonds  released  in  vain, 

My  heart  still  feels  the  weight  of  that  remem- 
ber d chain. 


SONNET  VIII. 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 


Silent  companions  of  the  lonely  hour, 

Friends,  who  can  never  alter  or  forsake, 

Who  for  inconstant  roving  have  no  power. 

And  all  neglect,  perforce,  must  calmly  take,— < 
Let  me  return  to  you  ; this  turmoil  ending 
Which  worldly  cares  have  in  my  spirit 
wrought, 

And,  o’er  your  old  familiar  pages  bending. 
Refresh  my  mind  with  many  a tranquil  thought. 
Till,  haply  meeting  there,  from  time  to  time, 
Fancies,  the  audible  echo  of  my  own, 

’Twill  be  like  hearing  in  a foreign  clime 
My  native  language  spoke  in  friendly  tone, 
And  with  a sort  of  welcome  I shall  dwell 
On  these,  my  unripe  musings,  told  so  well. 


SONNET  IX. 

TO  THE  COUNTESS  HELENE  ZAVADOWSKY. 


WHEx'i  our  young  Queen  put  on  her  rightful 
crown 

In  Gothic  Westminster’s  long-hallo w’d  walls, 

280 


The  eye  upon  no  lovelier  sight  looked  down 
Than  thou,  fair  Russian ! Memory  still  recalls 
The  soft  light  of  thy  sapphire-color’ d eyes, 

The  rich  twine  of  thy  simply-braided  hair, 
And  the  low  murmur  of  the  crowd’s  surprise 
To  see  thee  pass  along  so  strangely  fair. 

Nor  didst  thou  charm  by  looks  and  smiles 
alon(3, — 

Thy  “ broken  English  ” had  its  share  of  grace, 
For  something  in  thy  accent  and  thy  tone 
So  match’d  the  beauty  of  thy  gentle  face, 
We  seem’d  to  hear  our  old  familiar  words 
Set  to  some  foreign  lute  or  harp’s  melodious 
chords ! 


SONNET  X, 
TO  TAGUONI. 


Spirit  of  Grace,  whose  airy  footsteps  fall 
So  lightly  ! sure  the  looker-on  must  be 
Most  dull  of  fancy  who  doth  not  recall 
Some  sweet  comparison  to  picture  thee  ! 

The  white  snow,  drifting  in  its  soundless  show- 
ers,— 

The  young  bird  resting  on  a summer-bough, — 
The  south  wind  bending  down  the  opening  flow- 


M82 


SONNETS. 


The  clear  wave  lifted  with  a gentle  flow, — 
Rippling  and  bright,  advancing  and  retreating, 
Curling  around  the  rock  its  dancing  spray. 
Like  a fair  child  whose  kiss  of  gentle  greeting 
Woos  a companion  to  make  holiday, — 

Such  are  the  thoughts  of  beauty  round  me  shed. 
While  pleased  my  eyes  pursue  thy  light  elastic 
tread. 


SONNET  XL 
THE  WEAVER. 


Little  they  think,  the  giddy  and  the  vain. 
Wandering  at  pleasure  ’neath  the  shady  trees. 
While  the  light  glossy  silk  or  rustling  train 
Shines  in  the  sun  or  flutters  in  the  breeze. 
How  the  sick  weaver  plies  the  incessant  loom, 
Crossing  in  silence  the  perplexing  thread. 
Pent  in  the  confines  of  one  narrow  room. 

Where  droops  complainingly  his  cheerless 
head : — 

Little  they  think  with  what  dull  anxious  eyes. 
Nor  by  what  nerveless,  thin,  and  trembling 
hands. 

The  devious  mingling  of  those  various  dyes 
Where  wrought  to  answer  Luxury’s  com- 
mands : 


SONNETS. 


283 


But  the  day  cometh  when  the  tired  shall  rest,— 
Where  weary  Lazarus  leans  his  head  on  Abra- 
ham’s breast ! 


SONNET  Xir. 

**  Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 

Ay  los  mis  ojuelos. 

Ay  hagan  los  cielos 
Q,ue  de  mi  le  acuerdes  !”* 

Oh  ! crystal  eyes,  in  which  my  image  lay 
While  I was  near,  as  in  a fountain’s  wave 
Let  it  not  in  like  manner  pass  away 
When  I am  gone  ; for  I am  Love’s  true  slave, 
And  in  my  eyes  thine  image  dwells  enshrined. 
Like  one  who  dazzled  hath  beheld  the  sun, 
So  that  to  other  beauty  I am  blind, 

And  scarce  distinguish  what  I gaze  upon : 

Let  it  be  thus  with  thee  ! By  all  our  vows, — 
By  the  true  token-ring  upon  thy  hand, — 

Let  such  remembrance  as  my  worth  allows 
Between  thee  and  each  bright  temptation 
stand, — 

That  I,  in  those  clear  orbs,  on  my  return. 

As  in  the  wave’s  green  depth,  my  shadow  may 
discern. 

♦Seethe  notes  to  a beautiful  volume  of  poems  by 
Bryant,  where  this  fragment  of  a Spanish  ballad  ia 
given. 


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SONNET  XIII. 

TO  MISS  AUGUSTA  COWELL. 

[To  whom  I owe  the  popularity  of  some  of  my  fairor 
ite  ballads.] 


When  thy  light  fingers  touch  th’  obedient 
chords, 

Which,  with  a gentle  murmur,  low  respond, 
Waiting  the  measure  of  the  coming  words 
From  that  sweet  voice,  so  plaintive,  sad,  and 
fond, — 

Say  does  some  winged  Ariel,  hovering  near, 
Teach  thee  his  island  music  note  for  note. 
That  thou  may'st  copy  with  an  echo  clear 
Th’  enchanted  symphonies  that  round  thee 
float  ? 

Or  do  all  Melodies,  whilst  thou  art  playing, 
(Each  with  the  offering  of  some  chorded 
sound,) 

On  the  low  slanting  sunbeam  earthward  stray- 
ing, 

Like  meek  subservient  spirits  wander  round  ; 
■^n  Harmony’s  dim  language  asking  thee 
Which  of  them,  for  the  hour,  shall  thy  attendant 
be? 

284 


ffi 


SONNET  XIV. 

PRINCESS  MARIE  OF  WIRTEMBERO. 


White  Rose  of  Bourbon’s  branch,  so  early 
faded  ! 

When  thou  wert  carried  to  thy  silent  rest, 
And  every  brow  with  heavy  gloom  was  shaded, 
And  every  heart  with  fond  regret  oppress’d,— 
Sweet  was  the  thought  thy  brother  gave  to  him 
Who,  far  away  on  Ocean’s  restless  wave, 
Could  not  behold  those  fair  eyes  closed  and  dim 
Nor  see  thee  laid  in  thy  untimely  grave  ! 
And,  pitying  him  who  yet  thy  loss  must  hear. — 
Whose  absent  breast  a later  pang  must  feel, — 
Murmur’d,  with  touching  sadness,  by  thy  bier, 
“Adieu  for  me  ! Adieu  for  Joinville 
Sweet  was  the  thought,  and  tender  was  the  heart 
Which  thus  remember’d  all  who  in  its  love  had 
part."^ 


* The  touching  anecdote  is  told  of  the  youthful  Due 
d’Aumale,  that,  when  the  members  of  the  royal  family 
were  bidding  farewell  to  the  sacred  remains  of  the 
Princess  Marie  (the  Prince  de  Joinville  being  then  ab- 
sent with  his  ship,)  he  turned  with  a gush  of  sorrow, 
and  bid  adieu,  not  only  for  himself,  but  in  the  name 
of  his  absent  brother. 


285 


SOISNET  XV. 


Nor  wert  thou  only  by  thy  kindred  wept, — 
Young  mother  ! gentle  daughter  ! cherish’d 
wife ! 

Deep  in  her  memory  France  hath  fondly  kept 
The  records  of  thy  unassuming  life  ; 

Oft  shall  the  statue  heroine*  bring  to  mind, — 
As  pale  it  gleams  beneath  the  light  of  day, 

In  all  the  thoughtful  grace  by  thee  design’d — 
The  worth  and  talent  which  have  pass’d 
away  ! 

Oft  shall  the  old,  who  see  thy  child  pass  by, 
Smiling  and  glad,  despite  his  orphan’d  lot, 
Look  on  him  with  a blessing  and  a sigh  ; 

As  one  who  suffers  loss,  yet  feels  it  not, 

But  lifting  up  his  innocent  eyes  in  prayer. 
Vaguely  imagines  Heaven, — foretaught  that  thou 
art  THERE. 


* The  staute  of  Joan  of  Arc,  designed  and  executed 
by  the  Princess  herself. 


286 


SONNET  XVT. 

ON  HEARINa  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  COUNTESS  O? 
BURLINGTON, 

[Inscribed,  with  deep  and  earnest  sympathy,  to  her 
Mother,  the  Countess  of  Carlisle.] 


Since  in  the  pleasant  time  of  opening  flower, 
That  flower,  Her  life,  was  doom’d  to  fade 
away, — 

Since  Her  dear  loss  hath  shaded  lovely  hours, 
And  turn’d  to  mourning  all  the  smiles  of 
May, — 

Henceforward  when  the  warm  soft  breath  of 
Spring 

Bids  cowslips  star  the  meadows,  thick  and 
sweet ; 

When  doves  are  in  the  green  wood  murmuring. 
And  children  wander  with  delighted  feet ; 

When,  by  their  own  rich  beauty  downward 
bent, 

Soft  Guelder-roses  hang  their  tufts  of  snow. 

And  purple  lilacs  yield  a fragrant  scent, 

287 


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SONNETS. 


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And  bright  laburnum  droops  hs  yellow 
bough  ; — 

Let  that  Spring-time  be  welcomed  with  a sigh, 
For  Her  lamented  sake, — who  was  so  young  to 
die ! 


SONNET  XVII. 


But  since,  in  all  that  brief  Life’s  narrow  scope, 
No  day  pass’d  by  without  some  gentle  deed, 
Let  us  not  “ mourn  like  them  that  have  no 
hope,” 

Though  sharp  the  stroke, — and  suddenly 
decreed  ; 

For  still,  when  Spring  puts  out  her  tender  leaves, 
And  nature’s  beauty  seems  to  bud  in  vain, 
(Since  then  the  yearning  spirit  doubly  grieves 
With  fresh  remembrance  of  unconquer’d 
pain,) 

Returns  the  precious  memory  of  all 
I’he  grace  and  goodness  of  that  creature  fail, 
Whom  it  pleased  Godin  early  days  to  call 
From  this  dim  world  of  trouble,  toil,  and 


And  seldom  is  such  bless’ d conviction  given 
That  She  we  mourn  on  Earth  is  now  a Saint  in 
Heaven ! 


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